The Soulmate Paradox
by fullmetalgrigori
Summary: A dumping ground of SoMa prompts and drabbles. 30: In which Soul should really start rethinking some of his decisions
1. Green Succubus, Red Urchin

**A/N: A collection of all the prompts and drabbles that end up on my tumblr page (fullmetalgrigori). **

**Title Quote: "To say that one waits a lifetime for his soulmate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soulmates, which takes a lifetime to perfect." ~Criss Jami**

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><p><strong>Prompt (by notanirishginger): Spoken Word Poetry AU<strong>

**(Disclaimer: the poems I use in this prompt aren't mine. They are, in order of appearance: If I Should Have a Daughter, by Sarah Kay; The Sick Muse, by Charles Baudelaire)**

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><p>She's seen him before, at this cafe. She's seen him, and she's heard him sometimes, but she doesn't think she's ever heard <em>him<em>, not really. The poems he reads are beautiful, but she's known they're not his ever since she recognized a snippet of Emily Dickinson (I think i was enchanted). But he carries a black Moleskin with him every night, so he must be writing something. Writing, but not reading.

Not like she does.

The lights are bright tonight, but they no longer bother her like they used to. The warmth is comforting, not stifling, and she doesn't need to squint to see the audience. She recognizes a few people here and there, but it's snow-white hair and red eyes that capture her attention. He's watching her with that apathetic look on his face, and suddenly Maka is filled with dread because he is in her poem, and she is only realizing it now, as she speaks the words aloud.

"And, baby, I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him."

She meets his gaze as she speaks, and though her heart hammers in her chest, her voice is steady. She has done this hundreds of times; a boy is not going to change that.

But then his lips twitch upwards in a smirk, and her breath stutters.

To anyone else, the break is unnoticeable. But his smirks widens, and Maka spends the rest of her poem avoiding his gaze.

She tries to escape as soon as she leaves the stage, but he's already cornered her. "The boy who lit the fire, huh?" he asks, still smirking. "You know me well."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He crosses his arms, and Maka catches a glimpse of black Moleskin tucked underneath his elbow.

The words are in the air before she gives them permission to leave her mouth. "Read one of yours and I might. Your real ones, I mean."

He stiffens. "What makes you think-"

"Emily Dickinson."

"That could have been one time."

"It's not."

He scowls at her, and she softens because she recognizes the fear from her beginnings. "You heard me. Now I want to hear you. Please."

He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and it's so long that Maka begins to doubt. But then he sighs and shuffles his feet, untucks the Moleskin and climbs the stage.

Maka settles into the seat he'd vacated while he adjusts the microphone. He looks at her when he begins, and though the Moleskin is open on his lap, he doesn't look at it once.

"My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?

Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,

In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection,

I see insanity and horror forming.

The green succubus and the red urchin,

Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?

The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,

Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?"

He continues, and Maka is entranced. His voice carries his words with a grace that clashes with his rough appearance, yet there is a dark undercurrent that raises goosebumps on her skin.

He finishes abruptly, and there are a few seconds of silence before a polite smattering of bemused snapping breaks out. He nearly flings himself offstage and stalks over to Maka's table, throwing himself into the seat beside her.

"See why I don't read my stuff?" he grumbles.

"No," Maka answers. "I loved it."

He blinks. "Run that by me again?"

"I thought it was excellent. You're a fantastic poet…?" She trails off, because she is just now remembering that she doesn't know his name.

"Soul." He still looks bewildered, and she wonders how long it'll take to convince him that she truly means what she says. "And uh, thanks…?"

"Maka." She holds her hand out and he shakes it, but the gesture seems oddly formal since they've already starred in each other's poetry.

"I do have one comment, though." Maka says suddenly. Soul braces himself for the criticism, but he misses the mischievous spark in Maka's eyes.

"Green succubus, huh?"

He turns bright red. "Aw, shaddup."

_**Posted June 22 2014**_


	2. About Last Night

**A/N: Prompt by fabulousanima: "What's that on your shirt?"**

**Rated T for language**

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><p>He could tell the exact moment she spotted it, and that was when his morning started to go downhill. Although to be honest, it'd been pretty much fucked ever since Black*Star spiked Maka's punch the night before.<p>

It wasn't that he knew this from experience, but he believed a hungover meister wasn't going to be a happy one, so to hopefully head off any unpleasantness, he'd dragged himself out of bed to make her a very large, very black pot of coffee. It wasn't until she stumbled into the room, makeup looking more like bruises and hair ruffled that he fully remembered why giving Maka alcohol was such a bad idea. And why it was an even worse idea to still be wearing his clothes from the night before.

_Please don't ask, please don't ask, please don't-_

"What's that on your shirt?"

_Fuck._

"Nothing," he muttered, turning away to hide the stain near his shirt collar. "Probably just spilled something on it."

Goddammit, even hungover she was stubborn. He could hear her feet padding across the kitchen in uneven steps until they stopped right behind him. "Doesn't look like alcohol," she said dubiously, leaning closer to inspect it.

Her warm breath washed across his throat, and even though she had a truly terrible case of alcohol-laced morning breath, it brought back such a flood of memories from the night before that Soul physically flinched away. Thankfully, Maka was too hungover to notice.

She was _not_ too hungover to miss the other, more damning mark, because that would have been too easy. "What's that on your _neck?_" She sounded suspicious, and Soul began to check the kitchen for any hardbacks she might have left lying around.

"Uh, nothing," he said hurriedly, sidling away.

She squinted and poked at it. The bruise ached at her touch, and Soul hissed in mild discomfort. She took notice, and her eyes widened. "Is that…?" She trailed off and stepped back to meet his gaze.

And while Soul had mastered the art of the poker face, there was still one person who could see right through it, even when hungover. Maka's hand flew to her mouth, eyes darting back and forth between the glaring hickey on his neck and what she finally recognized as the lipstick Liz had coerced her into the night before.

Soul was frozen, unable to do anything but watch the gears in her head crank so loudly that he could almost see the steam pouring from her ears. "I didn't—that wasn't—did I?" she asked, stuttering and blushing and altogether refusing to look him in the eye.

"Apparently you get a little handsy when you're drunk," Soul answered, and _fuck_ he could have worded that a whole lot better. But Maka's face flushed a brilliant red at his words, so maybe it'd been worth it.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

Her face was priceless, and suddenly Soul was tempted to push her a little farther. "I didn't mind," he said, giving her a half-smirk as he turned to lean against the kitchen counter.

Maka was stunned into silence, her mouth opening and closing stupidly as she searched for a rebuttal. It was rare to render his meister be speechless, so Soul took it as a win.

"MAKA CHOP!"

Unless, of course, she happened to have a book nearby (who the hell kept _Anna Karenina_ in the kitchen, anyway?). Then the victory was all hers.

Well, Soul still had a hickey and her lipstick on his shirt, so maybe not _all_.

_**Posted June 22 2014**_


	3. Licensed to Spill

**A/N: Prompt by wingsof-flame: Day out on the boat**

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><p>This had been a very, very bad idea. But when had that ever stopped his meister?<p>

Soul stifled a groan and the urge to beat his head against the steering wheel of the motorboat Maka had roped him into driving. He wasn't sure where the boat had come from (though the name "Happy Hooker" pointed to a certain red-headed Death Scythe), but he'd learned long ago to stop questioning Maka's methods when she wanted something. And when she wanted to spend an afternoon on Lake Tahoe, well, Soul wasn't too surprised when she actually made it happen.

Didn't mean he had to like it, though.

"Soul, we've gotta go more to the left. No, the left!"

"I _am_ going left!"

"Not enough!"

Fucking hell. She didn't even know how to work a boat, and she was _still_ backseat driving.

(Oh, alright, he didn't know how to drive a boat either, but that wasn't the point.)

"Watch out for that buoy!"

"I see the buoy," Soul muttered through gritted teeth. If she made one more comment…

"Careful of the wake. Remember, we've gotta return the boat later tonight."

"For fuck's sake Maka, if you're gonna harass me this much, _you_ drive the fucking thing!"

She blinked at him. "But I don't have a boating license."

"So? You think I do?"

"No, but you drive a motorcycle."

The sun must have been affecting her. "Newsflash, bookworm, a motorcycle is not a boat."

She pinked and shot him a glare. "I know that. I just meant you've got driving experience is all."

"So can we agree that since I'm more experienced-"

"Soul."

"-No, let me finish-"

"Soul!"

"-goddammit, Maka, can't you let me get two words out-"

"SOUL!"

"What?!"

"The buoy!"

Soul turned his head just in time to see a very large, very orange buoy speeding right for them. He swore colorfully and yanked on the steering wheel, sending them careening to the right. He held on for dear life, white-knuckling the steering wheel like his life depended on it. It was a close call, and later Soul would swear that he'd scraped paint flakes off the damn thing, but a full-on collision was averted in the end.

His heart thudded in his throat as he peeled his fingers from the wheel. "See?" he said shakily. "I got it."

Maka was silent in what he assumed was her life flashing before her eyes. He snorted. "'S'what you get for doubting me. I can handle this thing no problem. alright?"

She still didn't answer, and while Soul desperately wanted to believe that she'd just taken the hint and shut up, he also knew that that would never happen. So he turned to check on her, only to see a conspicuously empty seat. And a flailing meister treading water about a hundred feet behind the boat.

"_SOUL!_"

Fuck.

_**Posted June 22 2014**_


	4. That's Not a Gopher Hole

**A/N: Prompt by sandmancircus: Gnome AU**

**(Jesus Christ this is probably the crackiest thing I have ever written)**

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><p>The first time Maka saw the creature, she thought she must have fallen asleep while reading Alice in Wonderland. might have continued to believe she was dreaming had it not been for the excruciating pain in her ankle, courtesy of her inattention combined with a rather unfortunately placed gopher hole.<p>

She hissed in pain and tried to shift to ease the throbbing, but her frock was tangled between her legs and restricted her movement. A scream of frustration ripped from her throat, scaring a family of crows from a nearby tree.

This was just like her, she thought. She'd only wanted to escape the disgustingly soppy gazes her father kept shooting the newest maid, and the forest bordering their estate had seemed the best place to do just that. Now she was caught with a twisted ankle in a gopher hole, and she was unlikely to be found for quite some time.

"You've got quite the penchant for trouble, don't you?" The voice was rough and unmistakably masculine.

Maka stiffened, then twisted her head this way and that as she tried to catch a glimpse of its owner. "Hello? Who's there?"

"Over here." The voice came from behind a tree not three feet from the hole she was stuck in, though Maka couldn't see anyone there.

"Uh…" she said inelegantly, craning her neck.

The voice sighed irritably. "Down here."

Maka's eyes fell to the root base of the tree just as a small figure stepped out from behind it. And that was when Maka thought herself to be dreaming.

Because small wasn't quite the word to describe the creature in front of her. Maka was small. This thing was absolutely miniature. She doubted it would stand any taller than three full handspans.

But aside from the diminutive stature, the creature looked like a human man—for the most part. Spiky white hair stuck up in tufts while bright red eyes surveyed her with a look of total disdain. He spoke suddenly, and his deep voice contrasted so completely with his size that if Maka hadn't been so taken aback, she might have laughed.

"Shut your mouth, you'll catch flies," he said in a bored tone. "Now do you want me to help you or not?"

Maka blinked stupidly. "I don't even know what you are. Or if you're real."

The creature bristled. "I have a name, you know. It's Soul. And of course I'm real." He hopped off the root and approached her, rolling his eyes as she flinched away. "I'm not going to hurt you. Be pretty hard to, considering you're five times my size."

"I am stuck in a gopher hole," Maka pointed out, "so you have the advantage right now."

Soul looked thoroughly unimpressed. "You caught me," he said as he bent to examine her ankle. "I put that hole there to capture underdeveloped girls like you. Saw right through my plan, you did."

Maka flushed and huffed angrily, but couldn't find a single thing to say.

"'Sides, it's not a gopher hole."

"What is it, then?"

"My front door. And your fat ankle is wedged in it." He prodded her foot suddenly with one small finger.

Pain shot through Maka's ankle and she yelped in pain. "Watch it!" she cried. He ignored her and continued to poke at her.

"Not broken. Just twisted."

"Still stuck in the hole," Maka hissed.

"I'm getting there." Soul huffed impatiently and placed his hands on either side of her ankle bone. Before Maka could ask what he was doing, a numbing sensation bled through her skin and wrapped her joint in warmth. There was the strangest sensation of sinews stretching and compressing, then there was a snap like an elastic band. Maka jerked back, bracing for pain, but none came.

She reached forward and probed the skin around her ankle, but felt nothing aside from a faint throbbing. "What…how did you…"

"This forest holds more than you'd think," Soul answered cryptically, stepping back. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why heal my ankle?"

Soul looked at her like she was stupid. "Did you miss the part where your foot was in my front door?"

"Didn't have to heal it, though."

A hint of a smile crossed his face. "You're clever, I'll give you that. Be more careful from now on." He turned to disappear behind the tree again.

"Wait! You never told me what you were! Or why you healed me!"

Soul looked at her over his shoulder. "You're so smart; figure it out for yourself." He bared his teeth at her in a wide grin, revealing razor sharp teeth, before vanishing into the tree roots.

Maka blinked, rubbed her eyes, and squinted at the tree. Nothing. Perhaps she'd dreamed the whole thing? She pushed herself to her feet, and her ankle gave a low throb. So, not a dream then.

It took less than three minutes for a burning curiosity to worm its way into her brain, and it took ten more for her to run back to the massive library tucked away in the back corner of the estate. Unfortunately, due to the sheer size and volume of books, it took quite a lot longer for her to find the information she wanted.

Two hours after meeting the strange creature in the woods, Maka found the book that contained her answer. Her eyes scanned the page eagerly, latching onto the sentence she wanted.

Her brows drew together as she read, and her face began to contort into a fierce scowl. By the time she reached the end, her face was bright red and she was practically having kittens.

Maka screamed in anger and threw the book as hard as she could. Her stomping footsteps echoed through the room as the hardback leather cover fell open to the page she'd been reading. A detailed color illustration of the creature she'd met decorated most of the page, leaving little room for the caption that had so incensed Maka.

_Gnomes are magical creatures that most frequently live in the root systems of trees. They are mostly reclusive creatures, tending to shy away from others of their kind. They are known, however, to watch after certain humans, particularly…_

_…prudish women._

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><p><strong>(That last part is true, at least in Alexander Pope's "The Rape of the Lock.") <strong>

_**Posted June 23 2014**_


	5. A Bit of a (Handsy) Trainwreck

**A/N: Prompt by exari: "You're sort of a trainwreck."**

**A prequel to "What's that on your shirt?"**

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><p>Soul was going to fucking murder Black*Star. Well, he would if he ever made it through the night intact.<p>

Yeah, he'd thought about killing the stupid blue-haired monkey before. Rarely a day went by when Soul _didn't_ want to throttle his friend at least once. But _this_. No, this really took the cake.

Black*Star had given Maka liquor. A fuckton of liquor. And Soul was pretty sure this was her first time drinking. Ever.

Now, Soul had spent enough time with Black*Star that he knew how to take care of a very drunk person. In fact, he liked to believe that he was good at it. But Black*Star was not (a) his meister, (b) someone he was ridiculously attracted to, or—maybe most importantly—(c) a very affectionate drunk.

Maka was all three. And she was pawing at him like there was no tomorrow.

"Ah, c'mon, Maka, don't—fuck—calm down." Soul's hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist as he tried to pin her wandering hands.

"Sooouuul," she pouted, bottom lip sticking out in a manner that was way too enticing to be healthy. "Leggo."

"Nooo, not gonna happen," Soul said quickly, trying to ignore the part of his brain that asked what the harm in letting her do what she wished would be. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hands and led her down the street towards their apartment. It was lucky for him that Black*Star lived within walking distance—perhaps the only lucky thing to come of the night. Soul shuddered to imagine what trying to drive Maka home would be like (and not all the shudders were due to dread).

"Why not?" She asked, suddenly sounding much more sober.

"Cos you're drunk," Soul snorted.

"So?"

Soul nearly stumbled, but righted himself before he could lose his grip and she could escape. "So?" he spluttered. "You're drunk, Maka! You're drunk and you're sort of a train wreck and you don't know what you're doing."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed. She looked like she was trying to answer of one Stein's impossible extra credit questions. "But I do know what I'm doing."

Soul ignored the way his heart flipped. "Sure you do," he muttered, and a wave of relief crashed over him as their apartment came into view.

_Not much longer now. Just get her to her room so she can crash, and this'll be all over._

He hated how depressed that made him.

Maka was quiet as he led her up the steps, and Soul thanked his lucky stars that she was still able to walk right. Carrying a handsy meister up the stairs was not something he wanted to try.

(Aw, who was he kidding? Of course he wanted to fucking try.)

But then came the front door. The front door which was locked and would require actual hands to open. Soul doubted his ability to hold Maka still with one hand, but there weren't any other options he could see.

Gingerly, he pried one of his hands from hers and locked her wrists together in the other. Maka was quiet as he dug around in his pocket for the key. Low alarm bells went off in his head at her stillness, but he was too preoccupied with getting the door open to listen to them.

The key finally turned and the door swung open to a dark apartment. Soul stuffed the key back into his pocket as he dragged Maka in behind him, who was still oddly submissive. He'd barely managed to flip the lights on when a pair of hands slammed the door shut and threw him against it.

_When did she…?_ That was about as far as he got before his brain short-circuited. Because her hands were running through his hair and her lips were on his neck and holy fucking shit.

The yelp she drew from his throat was definitely the uncoolest thing he'd ever uttered, but it was hard to really care about those kinds of things when Maka was doing her damnedest to give him a hickey the size of Montana. He couldn't really bring himself to care much about anything, actually, and that both scared him and turned him on.

And there was a reason he should care, right? At least, about something. Something about why this was wrong…

Shit. His eyes widened and his hands flew up to push Maka away. She looked at him under half-lidded eyes, and fuck if that didn't make it that much harder to keep her away. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"You're drunk," Soul said stupidly.

Maka giggled. "Yeah. Think I am."

"So you can't do this. Not now." And if she remembered those two words tomorrow morning, he was fucked (and not in the good way).

Surprisingly, she didn't protest. "Hmm. Okay." She smiled at him and patted his cheek. "You're a good person, y'know Soul?" With that, she turned and wobbled her way back to her room, and Soul was left wishing that he wasn't so goddamn good.

He sighed gustily and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He'd narrowly avoided a crisis of epic proportions, so why was he left with the feeling that the worst was yet to come? It was unlikely that she'd remember anything tomorrow morning, but he'd have to keep an eye on her just to make sure. Not to mention she'd have one mother of a hangover.

Soul groaned and stumbled towards his own room and the promised land of his bed. He barely managed to toe off his shoes before falling face-first into the sheets and falling asleep instantly.

If he'd looked in the mirror, he'd have noticed the bright red lipstick stain hovering near the edge of his shirt collar. But he didn't. That was a problem for tomorrow.

_**Posted 25 June 2014**_


	6. His Hips Don't Lie

**Prompt by both oddlittlesya (aka howlingmoonrise) and professor-maka: Dance**

**"Sing" by Ed Sheeran came on Pandora when I was writing the actual dancing part. So I sort of picture them dancing to that.**

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><p>Maka hadn't been expecting a lot of talent from this candidate, but she'd been hoping that he could avoid treading on her toes for at least the first two minutes.<p>

He hadn't.

Maka winced again and decided she'd had enough. Hiro looked horrified as she pried her hand from his and stepped back. "I'm sorry!" he stammered. "My last partner was shorter, so I'm always trying to take bigger steps, but that doesn't really work here because you've got long legs and your feet are bigger-"

Maka cut him off before he could insult her feet any more. "It's fine, we're just not compatible partners. Don't worry about it."

Hiro looked relieved, but Maka must have still looked irritated, because he didn't stick around to chat. As Maka shut off the music, the pattering of his retreating footsteps echoed in the enclosed dance studio. Maka's oen weary ones followed after as she retrieved a bottle of water from her bag and took a long gulp. She leaned against the wall of mirrors and slid down to sit on the floor, rubbing her head to ward off an oncoming headache.

She hated auditions, and she hated how she couldn't get out of them. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't dance on her own. A partner was required, and Maka was picky about who she danced with, which made this about ten times harder than it really needed to be.

Maka pulled out her phone and tapped the calender icon. A great swath of colored blocks covered her afternoon, but ended right before the current time. She was out of partners, and she didn't have any alternatives left.

She groaned and let her head fall to her knees. What was she going to do now?

As if in answer to her silent question, the door to the dance studio flew open with a crash. Maka looked up to see a flash of blue, followed by a loud cackle.

_I _really_ don't need this right now…_

"Maka! OI, MAKA!"

She growled. "Black*Star, I am _right here_. Stop yelling." She caught sight of another person standing behind him, a little off to the side. It wasn't someone she recognized, and despite her irritation with Black*Star, she found her curiosity piqued.

Black*Star barreled on with all the grace of a stampeding horse. "You found a partner yet? No, right? Well, your god's found one for ya!"

Maka tried (and failed) not to be insulted by his insinuation. "What are you talking about?"

"Soul!" Black*Star exclaimed, gesturing wildly to the person behind him. "He's another one of my disciples, and since he's a dancer like you—still kinda weird, dude—I figured you could try him out! Aren't I a benevolent god?"

"You're something, alright," Maka muttered.

The stranger (Soul) let out a low chuckle as he stepped forward, and Maka finally got her first good look at him.

He was taller than Black*Star was, but he stood with a slouch, hands in his pockets. His hair was an odd shade of white, held back by a simple black headband. Red eyes glittered as he scanned her up and down, seeming to take the same inventory she was. He grinned at her then (or perhaps smirked was a better word), revealing teeth that looked sharper than anything else she'd ever seen.

Any other girl might have cringed away at that point, but Maka was a dancer, And if Black*Star was going to shove this boy at her as a partner, then she was going to assess him like one.

His body was lean but well-muscled, and though he was slouching, Maka could read the years of training wound into his frame. You couldn't have any skill as a dancer and _not_ hold yourself in a way that showcased it. For those special few for whom dancing came naturally, it was burned into the muscles, written in the blood, knitted throughout the sinews.

Here then, was a kindred spirit.

"You dance?" she asked, and wanted to smack herself for the obviousness of it.

He nodded his head. "A little." He was playing with her, a languid amusement on his face as he looked at her.

"Black*Star didn't drag you here after two ballroom lessons, did he?" But she knew he hadn't.

"Why don't we find out?" Ooh, he was teasing her now, like a cat with a mouse.

Except this mouse had a feeling she knew exactly what the cat was capable of. So Maka stood up, brushed off her leggings, and met his gaze coolly. "Then let's see what you've got."

He joined her in the middle of the studio. Their gazes remained locked as Maka called out, "Black*Star. Hit play, would you? And for the love of God, don't break the stereo."

Soul's mouth quirked, but it fell off his face as the twang of guitars sprang from the speakers. He held his hand up for her to take, placing his other on her waist as she did. He waited a beat, listening to the music, and a few moments later, they began to dance.

He was…well, if she were being truthful, Soul was a brilliant dancer (as brilliant as he could be in a non-choreographed piece with an unfamiliar partner, at least). His feet were sure, his shoulder strong, and Jesus Christ, those hips had to be illegal…

She hated him for it.

Her old partner had been a bit of a pushover, and honestly, Maka had been the one to really lead. She tried to do the same with Soul, but she couldn't lead with him.

He wouldn't let her.

Every time her foot stepped forward, he'd yield only so much that he wouldn't step on her foot. In the next beat, he was pressing forward, using his body to direct her until she had no choice but to follow after him.

And even though this was how ballroom dancing was supposed to go, even though this was exactly why she'd never gotten very far in the competitive circuits, even though some small part of her thrilled at dancing properly, with a proper partner…

She hated him.

Because he knew what she was trying to do, and he was smirking at her as they danced. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he reveled in it.

And yet…the dancing. This was unlike anything Maka had experienced before, and she couldn't bring herself to let go of him. She was caught up in the rhythm, caught up in the music, caught up in the heat of his hand on her waist, grasping her tight as he directed her in spins and twirls.

How could she love and hate dancing with someone so much?

He stopped suddenly, and it was only that she realized the music had stopped. That shark-tooth smirk made a reappearance, and Maka felt her cheeks flush. She stepped back and smoothed her palms over her thighs, if only to give them something to do.

"Well?" He watched her expectantly, eyes still twinkling with that hint of mischief.

"Not bad," she said, trying to sound casual.

He nodded with mock thoughtfulness. "Could say the same for you. 'Cept I wasn't really expecting such a…" -his lips curled as he searched for the word- "…sensual performance from you. With the pigtails and all."

Maka shrieked in indignation, nearly drowning out the cackle of laughter coming from Black*Star. "I—you—ugh!"

"Hey, it was a compliment," he said, grinning widely as he backed away.

"I don't care! I'm never dancing with you!" She balled her fists, nails digging into the palms of her hands.

His eyebrows disappeared behind tufts of white hair. "Really? My bad. Thought I was your last option. But I guess if I'm not…" He tilted his head in a mock little bow and started backing away.

"Wait!" The word exploded from her mouth. She didn't have any other options, something they both knew. As much as she may have disliked him, she couldn't deny his skill, and she really, _really_ needed a partner. Surely she could put up with his personality for the sake of his dance?

"Yes?"

She grit her teeth and forced herself to relax her hands. "One month," she said. "We'll try this out for a month, ok?"

He grinned at her, and there was no teasing in his eyes this time. "Cool."

(He stayed for more than a month.)

_**Posted **__**27 **__**June 2014**_


	7. This Only Happens in Movies

**Prompt by wingsof-flame: Maka receiving the talk. **

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><p>"You're kidding."<p>

"You really think I'd kid about something like this?"

"Huh. No, actually. I just can't—oh man, how did that even go?"

"How did you _think_ it went, Soul?"

He dissolved into laughter, clutching his stomach as he nearly fell off the couch. Maka glared at him, her cheeks flushed pink as her fingers twitched toward the hardback on the coffee table. "Not funny, Soul."

He looked at her in disbelief, little giggles escaping in between words. "Are you—heh—serious? It's fucking hilarious!"

"Not when it's happening to you!" Maka's fists clenched on her thighs.

Soul was past hearing her. "I can't believe your dad tried to give you the sex talk!"

Maka cursed whatever unfortunate circumstances had conspired to bring the topic up. They'd only been watching a movie, dammit! But then the gangly, awkward male protagonist just had to be cornered by his equally gangly and awkward father for a shudder-inducing birds-and-the-bees talk. Soul had scoffed, saying that the script had to be exaggerated, that there was no way the talk could ever sound as horrific and mangled as the characters were making it.

That was when Maka had opened her big fat mouth. "Oh, you've _no_ idea." She'd meant it to be an inaudible mutter, but both characters had clammed up at the same time, leaving Maka's words to echo in the sudden quiet.

Soul had pounced. "What? What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she'd said quickly.

But the gears in Soul's head had already started already churning, seizing upon an answer before Maka could change the subject. "Holy shit," he'd crowed, eyes widening. "Your dad tried to give you the sex talk. He did, didn't he?"

Even if she had tried to deny it, Soul wouldn't believe her. So she'd sighed in a resigned sort of manner and said, "Yeah."

Which led them to the current conversation.

"Stop laughing, Soul," Maka hissed, crossing her arms.

"Can't," he hiccuped. "Still—heheh—trying to picture it."

Maka ground her teeth and didn't say anything. Because really, whatever Soul was imaging was probably eerily close to the truth.

It hadn't been pretty.

The incident in question had occurred a few months after Maka's mother had left to travel the world (or, really, to escape her womanizing husband—even at the age of 12, Maka had been a perceptive girl). Spirit had returned home one day to find Maka curled up on the couch, hands clutching her stomach as she rode out a wave of painful cramps. Her father must have gotten it into his head that Maka was missing out on crucial information with her mother's absence, and had taken it upon himself to try and fill the gap.

Maks shuddered at the memory.

_"Papa? What's going on?"_

_Spirit was sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with his hands and looking utterly petrified. For a moment, Maka's heart clenched in fear. What if something awful had happened? What if Mama had gotten into an accident during her travels and Maka never had a chance to see her again? "Papa," she said again, urgently. "Did something happen?"_

_Spirit forced a wide smile on his face. "No, honey, nothing's wrong! Nothing at all! Papa just wanted to have a talk with his darling daughter!"_

_Maka found herself relaxing slightly as she approached the table and took a seat. If something bad had really happened, her father would've been in a much worse state, she reasoned. Whatever he had to say surely couldn't be that bad, then._

_She was wrong._

_"I know it's been hard with your mother gone," Spirit started, shooting Maka an anxious look. She scowled at him and crossed her arms, eyebrows raised in a pointed glare. Spirit chuckled nervously and looked away. "Right. Well, Maka darling, I wanted to make sure that you, well…" He broke off suddenly, his eyes darting around the room._

_"Make sure of what?"_

_Spirit braced himself. "That my darling little girl knows what she needs to! I know that you're still young, sugar-pie, but I don't know if your Mama told you these things and since she's gone I know that it's my job to prepare you for those wicked boys out there." He scowled at this._

_"Papa, Mama already—"_

_But Spirit was too far gone in his lecture to pay Maka any heed. "I know you probably don't want to hear this from me, honeybear, but it's something that has to be said! Now, I've noticed your body has started going through some changes, and I want you to know these are perfectly natural things. You're turning into a woman just like your mother—"_

_"Papa!" Maka could feel her cheeks start to burn. This was the last thing she wanted to be talking about with her idiot of a father._

_"Before too long boys are going to start noticing these changes," -he scowled again- "and I want you to be prepared for those little perverts. You don't want to end up like your mother did," -he realized his mistake instantly and started blustering as he tried to cover it up- "not that we both weren't absolutely thrilled to have you! We both love you very much and wouldn't have had it any other way, but we still want a different future for you, of course. That's why it's so important that you know these things, so you aren't caught off guard when you do start dating, though that won't be for a very, very long time—"_

_"Papa, this isn't—"_

_"Now, I don't know what you've heard from other people, but I think it's best if we start from the very basics. When a man and a woman are in love, and they want to make a baby, they…well, they start with kissing and then after that—"_

_It was beginning to feel surreal, like Maka was trapped in a dream that she couldn't wake up from. A horribly embarrassing, awkward dream that had to end right now._

_"PAPA!" She burst from her chair, hands on the table, cheeks blazing red. "Mama talked to me before she left. I already know!"_

_Spirit stared at her, mouth hanging open in shock. His own face pinked as Maka's words sank in, and his mouth snapped shut. "Oh! Oh, well, then that's good." He smiled weakly at her. "Your Papa loves you very much Maka, and I just wanted to make sure knew everything that you needed to—"_

_"I do, Papa," Maka said sharply, cutting him off for the fourth time._

_"Well, if you ever have any questions—"_

_"I won't."_

_"Ah…okay. Just…make sure to stay away from those perverted little hooligans! I don't want them touching my Maka—not that you won't be attractive enough to touch, of course, but—"_

_Maka left the room before he could continue._

Maka shuddered again as she recalled the conversation that easily landed among the top five most embarrassing of her life. And now Soul was imagining it and laughing himself silly.

"Soul," she growled again. "Shut up. _Now._"

"Still can't," he wheezed. "Aw, man, the look on your face!"

That was it. If Soul wasn't going to let up, she was going to make him. She slammed her palm on the table, upsetting an empty glass.

Soul quieted slowly and looked to his meister. "Uh…Maka…?" An evil little grin had crept onto her face, and suddenly Soul was very, very afraid. "What are you…?"

Maka sucked in a deep breath, and what she yelled next had Soul yelping in fear and scrambling for his life:

"BLAIR! SOUL JUST TOLD ME HE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO PLEASE A WOMAN!"

It may have been petty, but as Soul tripped over the coffee table in his attempt to escape, Maka really couldn't find it in herself to care.

_**Posted 29 June 2014**_


	8. Unconventional Tutoring

**Prompt by izzyk279: "Could you help me study?"**

**Rated T because this took a turn for the PG-13**

* * *

><p>She does a little double-take as he says it, eyes widening in shock. "Are you feeling okay?" she asks, pushing herself away from her desk to cross her room. She reaches up and feels at his forehead, only halfway joking.<p>

"Har har," he says dryly, leaning away. "You're hilarious. I'm serious, Maka, I'm having trouble with this assignment."

"So?" she asks, still perplexed. "You've never cared about homework before."

She thinks it might be her imagination, but his cheeks flush ever-so-slightly. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to regain his composure. "Just…c'mere, would ya?"

She nods and follows her weapon-turned-boyfriend, eyes dipping lower as he stretches. The hem of his worn band shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of tanned skin, and a familiar pool of heat curls in her belly. How is it that they have been together for nearly a year now, and yet he can still draw out this kind of response from her?

Her eyes jerk up as he drags out a kitchen chair, gesturing for her to sit. Papers full of his sloppy handwriting are scattered across the tabletop as evidence of his labor, and as Maka quickly scans them over, Soul leans down to peer over her shoulder. His warm breath tickles her neck, and she suppresses a shiver.

"I don't quite see the problem," she says, brow wrinkling as she takes in his work. "You've got most of them right…"

"Not those," he says, and is it her imagination, or is his voice lower? His arm extends as he reaches for a paper near the other end of the table. Maka feels the stubble on his chin as his face bends closer to hers, and suddenly the room is too warm. She wants to curse him for being able to stir this kind of response in her, but she knows she never could.

Finally, he finds the paper he wants and drags it back to rest in front of Maka, but he doesn't move away. His arm now rests fully against hers, elbow to wrist, and he doesn't seem too fussed to move it. Instead, his thumb begins to trace lazy patterns on the back of her hand where it sits on the paper.

Paper. Right. And Maka tries, she really does. She sees the words on the page, knows they must be English, but then Soul turns his head to press a gentle kiss to her cheek and sends sparks skittering under her skin.

"Soul?" she asks, breathless. "What are you doing?"

"Studying," he answers, a wicked smile in his voice. He knows exactly what he's doing, and that's enough to snap Maka halfway out of her trance.

"No, you're not," she says tetchily. "At least, not right now. And everything looks fine, so I don't see why you need—"

He shifts, capturing her lips with his to send all her irritation flying out the window. It's a short kiss, and when he pulls back, he smirks at the look on her face. "Didn't say I was studying _that_," he says, referencing the material on the table.

Her confusion must be written on her face, because he fixes her with a heated look and roves his eyes up and down her body in a slow, piercing once-over.

Oh. _Oh._

His nose brushes against hers as their foreheads touch. "Mmmhmm," he hums. "I think I'm a little fuzzy on the subject," he adds slyly. "Could use some one-on-one tutoring."

Maka wants to laugh at his attempts to seduce her with studying, but damn it, _it's working_. The heat in her belly has her face flushing red and her feet twisting underneath the table. "I don't know," she says, scrambling to keep any semblance of composure. "You've still got a lot of work to do here…"

"It can wait," he growls. His head dips down so his nose is skimming her jaw. Soft kisses line her jugular. "Sides, I thought studying was one of your favorite things?" He speaks between kisses, voice rumbling low across her neck and raising goosebumps. The arm on the table draws back, leaving cold air in its wake, but it's soon replaced around her waist. Fingers press against the material of her shirt, drawing it up inch by inch. Her body feels like a live wire, and why is she drawing this out again?

"Well," she says, giving in as she arches her neck back. "You know I never say no to a little extra studying."

He pulls back, a burning look on his face. In less time than it takes to blink, he scoops her out of the chair and is carrying her across the room, lips attached to her neck.

For the first time in quite a while, Maka's books go untouched for the rest of the day.

_**Posted 3 July 2014**_


	9. I'm Not Dead Yet

**Prompt by wingsof-flame: Titans**

**No way in hell this wasn't gonna be an SNK AU**

* * *

><p>"…Soul?" She chokes on the word, barely able to say it in her shock and confusion. This can't be him, it can't—<p>

—because he's dead. And she knows that because she watched it happen.

"Maka! Get the fuck outta there!"

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder!"

"What are you even doing here? Just go!"

"Like hell. There's no way I'm leaving you."

"Dammit, Soul! GO!"

"NO!"

"Soul, what—"

"Grab my hand!"

"No, don't—shit, Soul, behind you—!"

And then he disappears into the meaty fist of an abnormally skinny Titan. All she sees next is a flash of white as the Titan cranes its neck up and drops her partner down its throat.

He's gone.

She doesn't remember much of what happened next. She thinks Black*Star was the one to find her, or maybe Kid. The shock had tried to dig its claws into her back, but had been roughly shaken off throughout the afternoon—the risk of extermination tended to do that.

But one thing that had kept replaying through her mind was the last image she had of Soul; the look on his face as he pulled her to safety at the cost of his own life. Idiot, she'd never asked that of him. But he'd never hidden the fact that she had his loyalty, and his life. He'd spent it for her, and she will never rid herself of the guilt that burns low in her gut.

But then, if he had sacrificed himself for her…why is she seeing him now?

"SOUL!" It's a scream now, ripped from deep in her throat. She springs forward, intent on reaching him as quickly as she can. She needs to touch him, needs to know that he's real, that this isn't some cruel dream her subconscious is inflicting on herself.

A hand grabs for her, but Maka easily twists away. She knows the risks of running out into the street, but she doesn't care. This is Soul, and she'll be damned if she'll be kept from him.

He's knee-deep in Titan flesh, sinews and muscle fibers winding around his legs and arms to keep him anchored in the neck of a 13-meter class. She doesn't know how, doesn't know why, but that's the last thing on her mind now.

"Soul," she says for the third time, and this one holds all the tenderness she has never quite been able to show him. It cracks, it bleeds, it leaks everything she thinks and feels for her partner, and she is so grateful that he can't hear it.

She clambers up the corpse of the Titan they'd been watching in awe all afternoon. It hadn't looked like the others, with its white hair and burning red eyes, and though it shares the same characteristics as Soul, it had never occurred to her that he might be trapped inside. Why would it? The flesh is hot and steaming, but Maka ignores the pain in her scramble to reach him.

Vaguely, she notes that the blood leaking from the Titan's wounds is a sticky, viscous black color. So is the flesh that knits Soul to the body he's emerged from, a fact that Maka knows Stein will take great interest in. Of all the Titan kills that have been logged, not one has ever bled black blood. (Of course, not one has ever split open to reveal a dead cadet either, so there's another first. Stein will be thrilled.)

Soul's head is drooped forward, as though he's too tired to hold it up himself. Maka falls to her knees in front of him, one shaking hand reaching out to touch his cheek. She nearly sobs when her fingertips brush his skin, and there is her proof that he is real.

The dam breaks, and she lunges forward to wrap him in a rib-crushing hug. She doesn't know if it's blood trickling down her cheeks, or tears.

"Maka," he groans in one long rattle, as though his lungs are trying to remember how to work.

"I'm here," she whispers fiercely.

"Demon," he croaks. "Demon…in m'head. So much—blood." His body convulses in one long, massive shudder, and she clings to him tighter.

"It's okay," she says, and it finally sinks in that it is. Oh, sure, there's a massive shitstorm headed their way, but his heart is pulsing regularly underneath his skin, and that's all she needs.

They'll figure it out, eventually. Together.

_**Posted 4 July 2014**_


	10. Hot Piano Guy

**Prompt by anonymous, from a dialogue prompt meme: "Can we pretend I didn't just say that?"**

* * *

><p>To be fair, it hadn't been one of Maka's best days. She was tired and she was stressed, both of which added up to a Maka who wasn't all that careful with what she said.<p>

"Sorry, Liz, I can't make it tonight." She pressed the phone against her ear as she tried to juggle an armful of books. Pile successfully balanced, she slung the strap of her messenger bag over her shoulder and made her way to the stairs.

"What? Why not?" Liz demanded, her voice tinny through the phone's speakers.

"I already told you yesterday, I've got study group."

"No, I distinctly remember you saying, 'Sure, Liz, of course I can come over. It'll be great because we haven't seen each other in ages since I'm an uptight nerd who studies all the time.'"

"I don't think I said that," Maka said, grunting as she shouldered open the stairway door. The librarian at the reference desk gave her phone the evil eye, but since it wasn't a quiet floor, she couldn't take it away. Maka could practically feel her cell-phone hating gaze on the back of her neck as she slowly wound her way between tables, searching for her study partner.

"It was something along those lines."

"Well, whatever I said, I still can't come tonight."

"Yeah, but for study group? Since when do you need extra studying?"

"Since I signed up for a music class I'm obviously going to fail."

"Wait…this is for the music class? Oh, don't tell me, you're studying with Hot Piano Guy?"

Maka snorted, then squeaked as the pile of books in her hand wobbled dangerously. "I didn't say that, either."

"Oh, come on. Why else would you blow me off? Admit it, you're studying with Hot Piano Guy." Liz sounded way too smug for her own good.

Maka rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"Still not hearing a denial."

"Alright, fine, I'm blowing you off to study with Hot Piano Guy, happy?"

"Hot Piano Guy? You wouldn't happen to be talking about me, would you?"

Maka startled violently, upsetting her books and sending them crashing onto the floor. Phone still to her ear, she turned slowly to see Soul Evans (aka Hot Piano Guy) sitting at a table behind her.

"Maka?" Liz asked. "Maka, I heard a crash. Everything okay?"

Maka swallowed hard. "So, Hot Piano Guy may have been sitting right behind me when I said that."

"Ooooh, get it, girl."

Maka hung up immediately, her face bright red. She stared at Soul, who met her gaze with a raised eyebrow and the start of a smirk.

"So I _am_ Hot Piano Guy."

Maka winced. "Can we pretend I didn't just say that?"

Soul shrugged. "If you want. I, for one, think the evening would be a whole lot more interesting if we didn't."

Correction: it hadn't started as one of Maka's best days.

_**Posted 8 July 2014**_


	11. A Well-Intentioned Sticky Note

**Prompt by therewithasmile: Reflection - Sometimes she stared at her reflection for long periods of time, he discovered with annoyance, until one day it pissed him off enough to just leave a note on the mirror frame. When she finally noticed it she gasped and turned red at the text, stuffing it away before anyone else saw.**

* * *

><p>He didn't know how long it'd been going on, but once he noticed it, he couldn't seem to <em>not<em>. It was a part of her routine, and now it was a part of his.

Wake up, shower, dress, make breakfast, notice Maka watching her reflection in the full-length mirror in her room, get annoyed at Maka turning and poking and frowning at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her room…

…but he didn't say anything, because God knew he'd already given her enough grief over her appearance. But shit, it got on his nerves. What did she even need to be squeezing and poking for? She looked fine enough to him (okay, maybe more than fine, but that was a whole different issue he wasn't quite sure they were ready for).

He _wanted_ to say something. Anything to wipe that frown off her face. He hated seeing her unhappy, hated it even more when he couldn't do anything about it (not that he was very good at that part). But…maybe there _was_ something he could do.

This would either go very well, or he'd be adding another concussion to his plentiful repertoire.

—

She didn't notice it at first. Her hair was being particularly difficult that morning, so all her attention had been focused on trying to tame the nest atop her head. When the orange sticky note did finally catch her attention, she peered at it in confusion. When had that gotten there…?

The handwriting told her it was her partner, and that he must have left it while she was in the shower. But that didn't really matter once she read the contents.

_Stop spending so much time here. There's nothing to frown at._

Maka's cheeks flamed such a bright red she thought she might explode. She plucked the note off the frame and practically threw it across the room. Second thoughts had her diving after it, because if Blair ever got her hands on it…

Finally, she just stuffed it in her nightstand drawer, because as much as it embarrassed her, she couldn't just throw it out. Even if he hadn't meant it, it was still kind of sweet.

But honest or no, she couldn't meet his gaze when she finally left her room. Piercing red eyes kept trying to catch green ones, but Maka was a stubborn thing. Breakfast was a quiet and supremely awkward affair, though most of it was probably Maka's fault. If she'd just acknowledge what he'd done—but that came dangerously close to territory she was too scared to tread. So she skirted around the subject, much to Soul's annoyance.

But no one ever said that Soul wasn't also a stubborn thing…

—

There was a new one the next day, and if the first one made her blush, it was nothing compare to what this one said:

_I don't really think your tits are tiny._

What the hell was she supposed to say to that one?! (Needless to say, Soul did get a chop for that note.)

But he didn't stop. Maka didn't say anything, and Soul didn't stop leaving tiny, one-line notes on the frame of her mirror.

And if Maka spent less and less time in front of the mirror each morning, well…mission accomplished.

_**Posted 13 July 2014**_


	12. Campfire Song

**Prompt by wingsof-flame: Campfire or campfire song**

* * *

><p>She hated his guitar. Really hated it. As in, she would throw it in the fire and happily watch it burn if she knew she could get away with it. But Soul knew of her vitriol and wouldn't hesitate to point fingers should anything befall his instrument (hadn't hesitated before, back when it would sometimes vanish mysteriously).<p>

It wasn't that she hated guitar music in general, or even that she hated hearing him play. Soul was actually a decent musician when he put his mind to it, though the piano was where he truly excelled. No, Maka's hate stemmed from the songs Soul chose to play.

Alright, so it probably didn't help that they were both in charge of a dozen hyperactive kids, not one over the age of twelve. Their requests were limited to songs played on cartoons and on the local kid's radio station, so yeah, Maka knew not to expect much good music from the evening campfires.

But goddammit, Soul didn't have to _encourage_ them.

"I call this one, the campfire song song," Soul said, sending Maka a cheeky wink as he began to strum all-too-familiar chords. His words were almost drowned out by the excited shrieking of the campers around him, as though they hadn't been singing this song every night since camp started. Maka glared, but Soul only gave her a shit-eating grin before launching into the song with gusto.

"Let's gather 'round the campfire, and sing our campfire song.

Our C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G song.

And if you don't think that we can sing it faster then you're wrong.

But it'll help if you just sing along…

BUM BUM BUM…"

Soul sang the last part in a ridiculous bass, drawing giggles from the girls in Maka's cabin. Maka herself only narrowed her eyes at her fellow counselor, but he either didn't notice or didn't care (Maka was leaning towards the latter).

With a dramatic strum of his guitar, Soul started the song over, this time a little faster. With every new verse, the song sped up and through it all, Soul's words remained perfectly clear. He was surprisingly adept at singing at top speed.

The kids, however, were not. Near the end of the third verse and all throughout the fourth, a cacophony of giggling, hollering campers echoed in the clearing. Maka would be lucky if she didn't go to bed with a headache.

When the kids had been reduced to incoherent babbling, Soul finished with a twangy flourish, prompting a round of applause from those gathered. Maka merely harrumphed and crossed her arms.

Later, after all campers had (finally) bedded down for the night, she met him back at the clearing, where the embers of the campfire had long since died out. She let him wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close, but didn't respond.

"Maka, don't be like that."

"I hate that song."

"The kids like it. And besides, you of all people really shouldn't be talking about what's good music."

She ignored him. "And I hate that stupid guitar."

He pouted. "I thought you liked to hear me play?"

"I do. Just not that." She shuddered.

"Okay, yeah, the song sucks, but the kids like it. That's what matters, right?"

She looked at him then, and even in the darkness of the clearing, she could still make out the softness of his mouth and the fondness in his eyes. Despite his unconventional looks, Soul was weirdly good with kids, something that should have surprised her, yet didn't.

However much she hated that song, and that stupid guitar, she couldn't be irritated at him when he had that look on his face. So she stretched up languidly, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

When his guitar went missing right before campfire that next day, Maka swore up and down she didn't know anything about it.

(It was hidden under her cot.)

_**Posted 14 July 2014**_


	13. Eight Ways

**Birthday fic for therewithasmile. A drabble series in eight parts, not connected. Based on "8 Ways to Say I Love You" by R. McKinley.**

_**Edit: (Sorry for the confusion, uploaded the wrong thing at first)**_

* * *

><p>I<p>

He's had way too much to drink, but he's at that point where he doesn't really care anymore. It's not often that he lets himself get this far, and maybe that's partially Black*Star's fault. He doesn't care about that either. The only thing he does care about is the phone in his hand and the buttons which are much harder to press than usual. How does he get to his contact list again? Oh yeah, she's on his speed dial.

…Which one is she again? One, that's right, because really, she's the only person in his life who would be at the top of his speed dial. He doesn't know how he could forget that.

He does manage to hit the 1 key, wincing as the phone rings shrilly in his ear. And rings, and rings, and finally she picks up with a cheery, "Hey!" but wait, that's not her but her voicemail. Well, it is two in the morning, so he's not really surprised that she doesn't answer.

His tongue feels heavy and thick in his mouth, like it's swelled two sizes. And there are cottonballs stuffed in his cheeks and what did he want to tell her again? Oh, of course:

"Maka? 'S' Soul," he slurs. "Wanted ta tell you somethin'. Somethin' real 'mportant. I—uh…"

And suddenly this doesn't seem as easy as he'd thought it to be five minutes ago. Swallowing hard, still tasting that last shot of whiskey, he says, "I love you."

It's rushed and a little slurred, but the words are unmistakable. He hangs up, and it doesn't hit him until hours later what a terrible idea it'd been.

He cringes when he looks at her the next morning, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

The tiny little smile she gives him says it all.

* * *

><p>II<p>

Kissing Maka Albarn, Soul decides, is pretty much the best thing ever. And his imagination had really done her a disservice.

He'd pictured running his hands through her hair, but he hadn't known how soft it would feel sliding across his fingers.

He'd fantasized about those pale, mile-long legs straddling his hips, but had he considered those very same legs wrapped around his waist?

He'd dreamed of those thin pink lips touching his, but there is also a hot, wet tongue behind them, and Maka slowly but surely learns how to use it against him.

How is it, he wonders, that he can kiss her for weeks, for months, and yet never grow tired of wrapping his arms around her middle and drawing her close?

She bends down to kiss him again, and her hand sneaks up the back of his shirt. Dull nails lazily scratch his back, and he shudders.

"I love you."

It's a breath from his lips quickly swallowed by hers, and neither of them is really sure whether it was actually ever said.

* * *

><p>III<p>

This is fucking stupid. Really, really fucking stupid. So why had he done it, again?

He's uncomfortable here. She's uncomfortable, clearly. Neither of them are suited for fancy restaurants and food that's too pretty to eat. But isn't this what you do, when you reach this stage? Isn't this expected?

Maka doesn't seem like that kind of girl, probably isn't that kind of girl, but Soul had panicked, and a panicked Soul isn't usually a very rational one. And by the time he'd made reservations, it was too late to cancel them. So they'd gotten dressed up, arrived at the restaurant…

…and were currently in the middle of the most awkward evening of Soul's life.

He sighs and looks at Maka. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"This." He gestures around the room.

"No, Soul, it's…nice."

But he doesn't miss her hesitation. "You hate it."

"No, I don't—"

"S'okay. I hate it here too."

"Then why did you suggest it?"

He flushes a faint pink. "Thought that was what I was s'posed to do. You know, when…" He can't say it.

"When what?" She leans a little closer, as if anything and everything he could say is the most interesting thing to her. Green eyes shine with that curious look, and now it's the easiest thing in the world to say.

"I love you."

They spend the rest of the night on the couch eating take-out pizza and watching old horror movies.

* * *

><p>IV<p>

Soul's bed had never been more comfortable than it was now. Okay, so maybe it was a little on the small side and maybe he was jammed up against the wall, but he had a sleeping meister in his arms and that was really all that mattered to him.

He couldn't see her very well, because it was three in the morning and the curtains were blocking out the moonlight, but he didn't need to see her. He could feel well enough; her chest expanding evenly as she breathed, her hair tickling his cheek, her cold toes pressed against his knees.

How had he ever slept without her in his arms?

He leaned forward, breath ghosting across her neck, and whispered, "I love you."

She shifted in her sleep, and Soul immediately slammed his eyes shut and forced his breathing to even out. He felt her turn in his arms until she was facing him, but he didn't risk checking if she was awake. Eventually, he didn't have to force his breathing as he fell asleep.

They woke up with foreheads touching.

* * *

><p>V<p>

He doesn't know how it starts, but now they're dancing in the kitchen, slipping on the flour he'd spilled, and the pancakes she'd been trying to make are forgotten. One of Soul's old jazz records is playing on the turntable he'd found in a pawnshop last week, and even though Maka doesn't understand music, she is trying her hardest to dance, and it's pretty much the funniest thing Soul's ever seen.

But he's dancing too, and her smile is too brilliant to even consider being embarrassed. He's trying to lead her, but she won't follow because she is stubborn, and for now he doesn't care. They are tripping and sliding and banging into counters, they're making a mess, but that isn't important.

He watches her as she twirls, her pigtails whipping out to slap him in the face. She giggles. There is a smudge of flour on her cheek.

"I love you."

The words come from nowhere, and he is as surprised as her. But he's also quicker to react, because he knows he can't just leave those words unaccompanied. So he tacks on, "when you try and dance." It's not a perfect patch, and there are probably other things he could have said, better things, but it's done.

She sneaks glances at him for the rest of the day, and he tries not to notice.

* * *

><p>VI<p>

Words are her thing, not his. She is well-versed in language, in the art of stringing together letters and sentences into something bigger than itself. She can debate with the best of them, arguing until you wonder why you were ever against her in the first place. Words are her thing.

They definitely aren't his, if the letter on the kitchen table is anything to show for it. He's never written anything so purple-ly in his life, and he _hates_ it.

He crumples up the letter and starts over (he thinks it must be his seventh attempt or so). It's more stream-of-consciousness prose than anything like a letter, but hey, at least it's honest.

But how's he supposed to get it to her? He can't just hand it to her like a second grader giving his crush a love letter (even though this is kind of exactly like that), but he can't just leave it around for her to find. Slip it in a coat pocket, maybe? In her bag?

He grows frustrated and annoyed with every passing second. This isn't how it's supposed to be like, is it? He doesn't want it to be.

He ends up leaving it in the trash with the others, her name scrawled on the envelope in his distinctive chicken scratch. He puts the matter behind him and tries to think of another way to tell her.

He almost has a heart attack the next day when the letter disappears from the trash can.

* * *

><p>VII<p>

_Oh God no please no this isn't fucking happening this can't be fucking happening he's gonna slaughter every goddamn cab driver in this goddamn city but first he has to see her has to make sure she's okay because oh god this isn't real this can't be _real

His thoughts are a jumbled mess of words and emotions all blended together, flying past at the speed of light. Not even in the midst of battle has he been this panicked, because there at least, he has her. She knows what she's doing, and she's good at it. He is in capable hands, he knows, and Maka Alarn does not make mistakes.

Not like drunk cab drivers do.

His hands shake as he enters the room. A shiver crawls up his spine as he takes her in, lying on a hospital bed and looking entirely too still and pale. Bandages wrap her middle like they had his so long ago. Bile rises up in his throat.

He must make some sort of noise because she stirs, blinking sleepily at him. Soul's knees nearly give out, and he quickly sets himself down on the chair by her side.

"Soul." Her voice sounds dry and cracked. "Hi."

"I love you." Because why wait another day to say it when she could get hit by a cab crossing the fucking street? They battle monsters and the stuff of nightmares, but this right here, this slap in the face has terrified him more than kishins ever have. It has occurred to him several times that she might be cut down in the middle of a fight. It has never occurred to him that she might just as easily die from living day to day.

And that is fucking terrifying, so yes. He says it. He says it again and again, and maybe he's overwhelming her, but he can't seem to stop.

He doesn't want to.

* * *

><p>VIII<p>

They're sitting at the breakfast table, both nursing cups of coffee and trying to hold off the day just a little longer. He lives for these moments, the ones that seem removed from the rest. The ones where it's just them, and the world around seems to forget them and pass by. He knows she loves them too.

His coffee is bitter, but it does the trick, and he can feel the sleep recede from his gritty eyes and fuzzy head. Maka slurps hers, coffee that is probably more akin to cream than actual coffee. She smacks her lips and grins at him, and though he's never said it before, he says it now, and it's as natural as breathing.

There are no extra words tacked on, no fluffy phrases or dramatic overtures. There is just one simple fact, one he thinks they have both known for a very long time.

"I love you."

The corners of her eyes crinkle, her lips soften, and her head tilts slightly as she looks at him. She regards him in a way she doesn't anyone else, and he knows what she'll say before she even opens her mouth.

"I love you too."

_**Posted 15 July 2014**_


	14. Mr and Mrs Evans

**A/N: Prompt was dumpster diving soma, from sandmancircus**

**Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU**

* * *

><p>"You're shitting me right now." Soul blinked at her stupidly, gun clasped loosely in his hand.<p>

Maka scowled. "Dammit, Soul, just get in the goddamn dumpster."

"Fuck no! You know the kinds of things people throw out?" He peered inside at the trash piled up and recoiled in disgust.

"What, would you rather get shot?" she hissed, jerking her head to indicate the street to their right. Heavy footsteps echoed off the brick walls of the alley, reinforcing her words.

Soul shuffled from foot to foot, then tucked the gun into the holster strapped to his shoulder. He braced his hands on the edge and lifted himself up. "Move over."

She scooted to the side as he dropped down lightly, and closed the lid after him.

"Thought so."

He ignored her. "But seriously though, Maka, a dumpster? Couldn't do any better than that?"

She scoffed. "Like you had a better idea."

It was dark, and she couldn't see, but she could hear his indignation. "Give me some time and I could have!"

"Because time is definitely something we've got a surplus of." The sarcasm was heavy and laced with a little apprehension.

Again Soul ignored her. He shifted his weight as he fidgeted, causing something to crack. She could almost hear his gag. "This is really disgusting."

"You know what else is disgusting? _Getting shot._ And you know what, I think it's also really goddamn painful."

"Alright woman, you've made your point."

She reached out in the darkness and punched at him. Judging from the feel and his yelp of pain, she'd managed to catch his shoulder. "_Don't_ call me that."

"Would you prefer 'honey' instead?" He sounded a little too dark for the remark to be flippant.

"Soul. Don't tell me you're still mad about that."

"Hell fuckin' yeah I'm mad!" He managed to keep his voice down, but it still came out in a vehement hiss. "When the fuck were you gonna tell me you worked for Shibusen?"

"About the same time you were," Maka shot back. "Which I'm guessing was never."

"I had a cover to keep!"

"So did I!"

There was a long pause before Soul spoke again. "Maka…was I just a part of your cover? Be honest."

And here was the question she'd been kicking herself over for the past year. "Yes—"

"Fucking hell—"

"Hold on!" she said testily. "You didn't let me finish. Yes…at first you were. But, I don't know. Something changed." She didn't much care for the vulnerability in her voice, and suddenly she was glad she couldn't see him.

His was soft too, and she hated that she could imagine exactly what he looked like then. "It was Italy, wasn't it?"

The memory crashed over her like a tidal wave, and when she could speak again, it was more like a sigh. "Yeah."

"Me too."

She tried to ignore how light the words made her feel and failed spectacularly. "So what now?"

His answer was quick. "So we get the fuck outta this dumpster, that's what's now."

Maka wasn't as gung-ho. "You think it's safe?"

"Only one way to find out." If there'd been light enough to see, she knew he'd be sending her a cheeky wink and a practiced smirk.

But she trusted him nonetheless. "On three, then?"

Three beats later, they popped out of the dumpster…

…to face at least half a dozen men in body armor.

"I thought you said it was safe?!" Maka shrieked, twirling around to cover her partner's back. She whipped out knives from seemingly nowhere and flung them with uncanny accuracy. Whenever a flash of silver left her hand, someone went down.

"I _never_ said that!" Soul shouted back. His guns roared in his hand, spitting out bullet fire that had SWAT teams ducking for cover. "I said there was only one way to find out! And we did!"

They stood back-to-back, arms outstretched, guns blazing and knives whistling and mouths running. And even though they were in caught in the middle of the biggest clusterfuck they'd ever been in, Maka couldn't remember ever feeling so energized. But she couldn't let Soul know that. "I'm gonna kill you!"

He laughed. "Get in line!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 17 July 2014<strong>_


	15. The Angel and the Butter Knife

**A/N: Prompt is superhero, from wingsof-flame**

**(Please bear with me as I catch up on uploading several months of prompts!)**

* * *

><p>The first thing Soul's aware of is the pain. But pain doesn't feel like the right word for it. This isn't just pain, this is pain-that-is-greater-than-pain. It is constant, it is pressing, it is everywhere. Behind his eyes, between his toes, lacing his bones, <em>everywhere.<em> Constant, throbbing, pain-that-is-greater-than-pain.

He wants to open his eyes, but they are glued shut. He wants to move, but his limbs are nailed to the floor. Trapped in his own body, trapped and hurting.

Time slips by at a strange pace. Has it been minutes since he's—not woken up, because that would require open eyes and full consciousness, and he's not sure that's what this is. But has it been minutes, or seconds? Or even hours? How does one measure time trapped in one's own head?

But slowly, so slowly that he's not even sure it's happening, the pain-that-is-greater-than-pain begins to recede. It releases its vice-like grip on his body, until it's less the pain of an injury and more the pain of a strenuous workout. Except he doesn't think he's every managed to get every muscle in his body aching at once.

The next thing he's aware of is the scream.

It's shrill and panicked and familiar, and it takes all of two seconds to identify. _Maka._

The bone-deep ache of his muscles is ignored as his eyes fly open and his body practically jackknifes itself off the floor. Maka is hurt, Maka is in trouble, and…Maka is in his bathroom?

They're in his house, yes, but suddenly Soul isn't sure how they got there. The thought would alarm him more if Maka wasn't too busy screaming her head off.

"Maka!" He skids in the doorway. "Maka, what—?"

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

"Oh God, Soul, I don't know what happened, I just woke up and knew something felt off, but I didn't know what it was, so I got up to go to the bathroom, and oh God…" She breaks off hiccup and buries her face in her hands.

"What— what happened?" His voice sounds rusty in his shock.

"I don't know! I don't know what happened yesterday, I don't know how we got here, and I don't fucking know why I've got wings sprouting out my back!"

Soul moves closer, unable to take his eyes off the reason behind Maka's panic. Brilliant, pure white wings extend from her shoulder blades and arc gracefully through the air, filling half the bathroom. They rustle in agitation, brushing against each other as they send gentle flurries of air in his direction .

Soul can't help himself. He reaches out to touch one solitary feather, eyes wide and needing to know that they're actually real.

They are real, and they're soft. He runs his hand down the top of a wing, captivated by the downy feel of them. Thin, hollow bone is solid beneath his fingers, yet feels like it might snap with one wrong move.

Maka sucks in a harsh breath, and Soul stills instantly. "What 's wrong?"

"Don't—don't do that." Her voice is strangled, and he glances at her curiously in the mirror. Maka's eyes are squeezed shut; her face is flushed a bright red. Hands grasp the counter in a white-knuckled grip.

Soul's hand moves like it's been burned. Oh God, please let her request be because that hurts her and not the other, much more embarrassing reason…

"They're real, aren't they?" she whispers, and Soul meets her gaze in the mirror. Green eyes shine with confused, panicked tears.

Soul nods. "Yeah. I don't know how, but yeah."

"And you. Are you—?"

He shakes his head. "No." Part of him is relieved that he isn't going through what she is, but another part aches for her and wishes to give her some sense of solidarity.

As he reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, a flash of light sparks in his periphery. Turning his head to meet it, what he finds has him yelping and scrambling back in shock.

"Soul? What's wrong?" Her new-found wings block her vision in the mirror, so she tries turning awkwardly in the small space. "What's going on?"

"I—uh, I spoke too soon."

"What?" She finally manages to twist herself away from the counter, only managing to knock over a few shampoo bottles in the process. When she does finally lay eyes on him, her hands fly to her mouth. "Soul! Soul, your arm—"

"I know." He stares at it, at what used to be his arm, and starts to wish very fervently that he'll be able to wake from this dream soon.

His arm is gone. In its place is a wickedly sharp blade, decorated in designs of scarlet red and vivid black. It connects with his shoulder, where metal seamlessly becomes flesh once more. Soul gingerly pokes at it, and though the sensation is very muted, he knows that this is his arm.

"You too," Maka whispers. Her wings flutter in agitation.

He looks back at her and asks the question that's on both their minds. "What the fucking hell happened yesterday?"

Maka thinks hard, eyes squinting and hands rubbing her temples. "We weren't at school, I know that. Why weren't we at school…?"

Soul isn't sure if the question's being directed at him, but he answers anyway. "Field trip, maybe?"

Her eyes open wide in recognition. "Yes! We were! I can't remember where, though. All I can see is a snake and a spider…"

"Isn't that the logo for Gorgon Industries?"

"Gorgon…" Maka mutters. "Yes. I think so. I remember bench tops and white coats—"

"Maybe we were touring the labs?" Soul looks down at his blade-arm again, wondering if it will ever return to its original form. The black of the blade stirs something in him, and suddenly the memory comes rushing back.

"There was a scientist there," he blurts out. "With pink hair. He was doing something with a test tube filled with this thick black stuff. Dropped it on the bench, remember? And a little bit of it splashed on our hands."

Maka goes white. "I had a hangnail yesterday. It burned when I was washing the black goo off."

"Think I had a papercut. Must have, right? I think that stuff is what did this to us."

Maka shakes her head. "It can't have. There's no way…"

"Maka, you've got fucking wings sticking out your shoulders. My arm is a fucking butter knife. _Something_ happened, okay? And that's the only thing that makes sense."

"But what are we supposed to do? Tell someone?"

"What, and end up stuck under a microscope and experimented on? No, we can't say a word about this."

"Then what do we do?"

"I don't know, you figure it out. I'll go along with whatever you decide."

She looks surprised at that. "You will?"

He hates how his cheeks feel hot under her stare. "Well, yeah. You're my best friend. I trust you."

Maka smiles at him. "I trust you, too." She straightens up and looks behind her in the mirror. "You know…I guess this is kind of cool."

Soul snorts. "Yep, Definitely. We're regular superheroes now."

A bright spark lights up her eyes. "You know…"

"No. Absolutely not."

"We'll see."

"No we will not fucking see, because—goddammit! "

"Soul! Are you okay?"

"Fucking piece of shit. Can't just be my arm, can it? No, let's make it a leg, too. Fucking fuck…"

"We'll work on it."

"…Yeah, alright."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 20 July 2014<strong>_


	16. Empty Bookshelves

**A/N: Prompt by izzyk279: "You mean to tell me, you've read all these books?"**

**Fair warning, thar be Sad Eater here. **

* * *

><p>He can't look them in the eye when they come, with their boxes and their tape and their complete and utter disregard for the things they touch. Soul wants to shout at them, wants to scream and yell and kick them all out and slam the door behind them.<p>

But he can't.

He's known for a while that he can't stay here. It's too big now, and rent's too high, and…it's driving him crazy. Everything, literally everything in the apartment has something extra attached to it. He can't look at the scratch on the coffee table without remembering the time when he was thirteen and still trying to master single-blade manifestation (he'd summoned one a little too long and ended up gouging the wood of the brand new coffee table). That was when he first learned what a hardback spine felt like against a skull.

Speaking of…he ducks into her room, stares up at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line one wall. "Separate these," he tells one of the packers. "They're mine."

The man looks at him in disbelief. "You mean to tell me you've read all these books?"

"No," Soul says. "But I'm working on it."

And he is, little by little. Soul had never been one for reading, but he had also never been one to give up. _The Scarlet Letter_ gives him a headache and _Catch-22_ is downright tedious, but _To Kill a Mockingbird_ is unexpectedly good and _The Catcher in the Rye_ strikes a chord in him that makes him think he understands why these books line her walls.

Now they'll line his.

He hears them moving around in the apartment behind him, shoving things into boxes without any thought for who they belong to. But it's alright. Soul has his own box tucked into the corner of his room, separated from all the others. It's not labeled because there isn't a word in the English language that can label what lies inside. But he knows what it contains, and that's all he needs.

In the end, there are five new boxes added to his pile. They're heavy and they're unwieldy, but Soul carries all five of them down the stairs with nary a word.

—

It's cold in his new apartment. It's cold and it's small and it smells a little like paint. He hates it, but he can't go back to the one place he wants to be, because it'll kill him.

After the last box hits the floor with a thud, Soul kneels down and peels off the tape. Colorful dust jackets greet him, and for a moment, he falters. He's going to read every single one of them, yes, but sometimes it's hard when he can remember a different pair of hands holding them.

He plucks one from the top and flips through it at random. Neat, tiny lettering lines the margins, pointing out phrases and lines that had particularly struck the reader. Soul skims over them, drinking in her words like a struggling alcoholic.

The last line is underlined: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Underneath it, Maka had penned, _Need to maintain balance? Shouldn't let yourself get swept away, but can't fight forever._

He finds himself agreeing with her words, but it is so hard to follow them. Flipping the book shut, he turns it over to read the title: _The Great Gatsby._

Newest book in hand, he slumps onto his bed, ignoring the creak of the naked mattress beneath him. He begins to read, and as he reads, her voice echoes in his mind, reading out her notes and accompanying him as he dives into the pages.

Her notes are her life, packed between paper and carrying the precious weight of her words, her thoughts, her ideas. She's pressed between the pages of her books, like a flower preserved long past the day it was plucked.

In these pages, she lives a little longer.

It's not enough.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 21 July 2014<strong>_


	17. Pivot

**A/N: Prompt from epicminion: Soma and redecorating the apartment**

**Inspired by one of my favorite Friends moments**

* * *

><p>Soul rolled his eyes for the twenty-seventh time that day and asked, "Remind me how we got roped into this again?"<p>

Maka's lips pursed into a sour scowl. Her words were a mumble: "Ox scored 1% higher on that last test."

"Oh, I know. I just wanted to remind you that this is all your fault."

She whipped her head around to glare at him. "Soul!"

"I'm just saying. If you hadn't made that stupid bet, we wouldn't be stuck helping him move all his furniture." He petulantly kicked at a chair in front of him. "And why am _I_ even here, anyway? You're the one that made the stupid bet."

"Partners were included," Maka sighed, eyeing a lurid pink lampshade (obviously Kim's) in distaste.

"And you didn't feel the need to tell me this because…?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "I thought I would win!"

"But you didn't."

"Obviously."

"And now we're stuck playing movers to the most irritating know-it-all we know."

"Thank you for that completely unnecessary recap."

"If you're done standing there and being useless, we could use some assistance." Ox's prim voice drew their attention to the faded green nylon sofa resting at the foot of the stairs. Kim stood nearby, tapping her shoe and looking utterly disinterested.

"I don't think that's going to fit, Ox," Maka said dubiously.

Ox sniffed haughtily. "On the contrary, I know it will. I've measured the dimensions of both the couch and the stairwell, and according to my calculations, if we tilt the couch at an angle of no less than 37 degrees…"

"I take it back." Soul's breath was hot against her ear, and Maka had to fight hard to keep down her blush.

"Take what back?"

"You're not the biggest nerd I know. Not by a long shot."

She giggled. "Thanks, I guess."

"The sooner you two stop flirting, the sooner we get this done." Kim watched the two with a knowing look in her eye.

Maka squeaked and jerked away from her weapon. "I'm—we're not—"

Soul looked unfazed. "Like you're helping at all. You haven't lifted a finger this entire time."

"I'm supervising."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's just get this over with. Where do you want us, Ox?"

Soul was directed to the back of the sofa, Maka to the left side. Ox took the right, and on his count, they raised into the air with a collective grunt.

"Soul, you lift it up higher. No, higher and down. Down! Tilt it down; I told you 37 degrees—"

"The fuck should I know what 37 degrees is?"

"Maka, you need to swing it around this way. And tilt it down. Down! No, I mean the _other_ way."

"Ox, it's fine." Maka's teeth were ground together. "Let's just get it up the stairs."

Ox went first, taking each stair with excruciating slowness. Soul met Maka's gaze and widened his eyes in a "kill-me-now" stare. She bit her lips to keep from laughing.

Finally, Ox was taking the first step on the second flight, Soul was on the landing, and Maka was close behind.

The sofa, however, was not. It was happily stuck in between flights, and it didn't look like it was going anywhere anytime soon. No one had told Ox that, though.

"Okay, now Maka, you need to lift your end up. No, not that high! And tilt it a little. Soul, you too. Now pivot…"

Soul grunted and shifted the sofa in his arms. Ox squawked indignantly. "No! Pivot, Soul, I said pivot!"

"I am pivoting!"

"No, you're tilting."

"Same fucking difference."

Ox ignored him. "We're almost there. Now pivot…PIVOT…_PIVOT_…"

"Hey Ox?" Soul caught Maka's gaze once more, but there was more than an exasperated look on his face. In seconds she'd caught onto his plan and was nodding in agreement, fingers adjusting on the edge of the couch.

"What?"

"Shut the fuck up." Soul let go of the sofa the same time Maka did and both swiftly stepped out of the way. Ox, still clinging to the arm of the couch, was dragged along as it thumped its way back down the stairs. He landed in an undignified heap, limbs askew and glasses hanging off an ear.

Maka was still laughing as Soul clomped down the stairs to her side. "Hey Maka?"

"Yes?"

"Don't ever include me in a bet you can't win."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 27 July 2014<strong>_


	18. Want Some Snark To Go With That Demon?

**A/N: This was originally a prompt idea by weapon-ish on tumblr that I decided to play with. D4 also did a version of this, and gunning-twice did art for this particular version. The link should be on my profile.**

* * *

><p>It was only ever supposed to be a silly little game—something creepy to pencil in between the manicures and the romcoms, something daring to check off the list of sleepover musts. At the very most, it was only ever supposed to scare Tsubaki a little.<p>

It certainly wasn't supposed to _work_.

"You want to do what now?" Maka's eyebrows were raised as she eyed the printout Liz was waving around.

"It's some old Japanese spirit-summoning ritual I found online," she said. "Either that or demons, I think the translate app on my browser was acting up."

"I don't think it's a good idea." Tsubaki was more than a little superstitious about these kind of things which, now that Maka thought about it, was probably the reason Liz had suggested it in the first place.

"Oh come on, Tsu," Liz wheedled. "Stuff like this never works. We'll follow the instructions, nothing'll happen, and we'll get on with our night no worse for wear."

"So why do it in the first place?" Maka asked.

Liz shrugged. "Why watch a horror movie? All of the fear with none of the squicky aftermath."

"It'll be fun!" Patti chimed in. "'Sides, I know a guy who did it once."

"What happened?" Tsubaki looked curious despite herself.

Patti wiggled a pinky in the air. "Only lost a finger." She cackled at the horrified look on Tsubaki's face.

"She's kidding. You're kidding." Liz gave Patti a pointed glare before rubbing a hand across Tsubaki's shoulder. "Relax," she soothed. "Nothing's gonna happen." She looked to Maka. "So are you in?"

Maka shrugged. "It's not like I believe in this stuff, so why not? But you can't make Tsu do something she doesn't want to."

Three heads turned to look at the timid girl. Tsubaki swallowed hard, steeled herself, and said, "Yes. I think we should."

"Don't let us bully you," Liz said, as if that wasn't what she'd been doing before.

Tsubaki shook her head. "No—I think this will be good for me. I need to face my fears, yes?"

"That's the spirit!" Liz said fondly. "Now Patti, I'mma need you to get these things for me…"

Ten minutes later, the coffee table was piled high with the strangest assortment of materials Maka had ever seen: white rice in a small glass bowl, a cup of saltwater, a pocketknife, a spool of red thread, a writing pad, and a pen. Maka poked at the rice and cocked an eyebrow.

"Hey, don't look at me like that, I didn't write the damn thing," Liz defended. She scanned the instructions in front of her. "Okay, so it looks like one of us has to do all the steps. Since the writing part is all in Japanese—and I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Tsubaki's not gonna be banging down the door to do it—then Maka's the next best thing. Is that alright with you?"

Maka nodded. "Like i said, it's not like I believe it."

"Awesome!" Liz clapped her hands, eyes shining with excitement. "Let's summon ourselves a demon!"

"I thought you said this wouldn't work." Tsubaki looked guarded, but she remained where she was.

"It'd be cool if it did, though," Patti said, winding some of the red string around her finger.

"And _if_ we do summon one, that's what the rice and saltwater is for. They're protections, just in case. And it's Maka who's doing the thing anyway, so there you go."

"Thanks," Maka said dryly.

Liz flashed her a winning smile. "No problem. Now come on, we're burning daylight!"

Maka chose not to comment on the fact that it was already well past twilight and simply slid the paper in front of her. Four steps were listed in bold; Maka's eyebrows shot into her hairline as she read the first one. "Blood?"

"It's only, like, a couple drops," Liz dismissed. "A needlestick, that's all."

It was too late to turn back now—Maka had always been a curious person, even when dealing with something she didn't believe in. "Let's do it, then."

Patti snatched up the pocketknife and one-too-gently jabbed at her pointer finger ("Dammit, Patti, a couple _drops!_"). The liquid plopped onto the rice silently, staining the white grains scarlet.

Liz took her other hand gently and tied a length of red thread around her index finger, knotting it once. She snipped the ends off with the pocketknife, then picked up the saltwater. "You gotta take a sip of this and hold it in your mouth, then write the Japanese line three times."

Maka made a face. "Gross. Give it here, then." She sipped at the brackish water and swished it in mouth a little. Tsubaki slid the writing pad and pen to her, and Maka couldn't help but give her a little grin. Despite all of Tsu's uncertainty, she was getting caught up in it, same as them.

Thankfully, the writing didn't look as hard as it could have been. Maka's mother had shown her how to write a few kanji when she was growing up, so she knew the basics of how to form the characters, at least. It was still a painstaking process, as it is with non-native languages. By middle of the second line, however, she'd found a steady rhythm.

Her pen flew across the page for the third line; she didn't think she could have stopped writing even if she'd wanted to. As the last kanji took shape on the page, she looked up expectantly—but aside from the saltwater tingling in her mouth, nothing in the atmosphere had changed. There certainly wasn't a demon in the room.

Well, it wasn't like she'd expected anything else, really. There was a small part of her that was disappointed, though she quickly pushed the feeling down. Not summoning a demon was a _good_ thing.

"Huh," Liz grunted, looking dissatisfied. "Was hoping for some flickering lights, at least."

Her sentence was punctuated by a great sucking sound, followed closely by what looked to be a teenage boy materializing out of thin air and falling onto their coffee table.

Maka spat out the saltwater in surprise as the other girls let out some combination of startled screams and squeaks.

"What. The Hell." The figure sat up with a groan, and though he did look for all the world like an everyday teenage boy, Maka knew for a fact that teenage boys did not sport tiny black horns, spiky white hair, red eyes, or jagged teeth. Or had a forked red _tail_, for that matter.

Liz seemed to recover first. "That works."

"Did it—" Maka started in a daze. "Is he—"

"I think you did it, Maka," Tsubaki said in a horrified whisper.

The boy (demon?) groaned and rubbed at his eyes. "Never gonna hear the end of this. Just minding my own business…" He trailed off and eyed the girls with a haughty look on his face. "I am Soul Eater; what is your will?"

Maka, Liz, and Tsubaki were frozen in shock, but Patti burst out laughing. "Soul Eater?" she choked out. "What, were Bone Crusher and Marrow Sucker taken?"

He pouted at her, and that seemed to release whatever tension the others were holding. "Aren't you supposed to be screaming or something? Usually there's screaming."

"You appeared out of nowhere dressed in a suit and crash-landed on our coffee table," Liz pointed out. "So that would be a no."

"Wasn't my fault," he retorted. "I didn't do the summoning."

"Okay, I think I'm about at my limit," Tsubaki said weakly. "Can you send him back?"

"Please do," the demon said. "I've things to be doing."

"I don't know how," Maka admitted.

The demon rolled his eyes. "Cut the thread."

"Oh." Maka held out her finger to Liz, who carefully snipped it off with the pocketknife. A few moments passed, then…

…Nothing.

"So is this another delayed reaction thing, or…?" Liz trailed off with a gesture.

The demon furrowed his brow. "What exactly did you do?"

Patti yanked the printout from underneath him. "Here ya go."

He scanned the paper carefully, then swore in a guttural language Maka didn't recognize (at least, she thought it was a swear; whatever he'd said didn't sound flattering). "This isn't a summoning," he said flatly. "It's a binding."

"A what?"

"I'm bound by contract to protect and serve the summoner for a year; I literally can't leave until then."

…

"Fuck."

"You're telling me."

"And you thought this wouldn't work. Now Maka's got the puppy from hell following her around for the next year."

"Who're you calling a puppy?! And who's Maka?"

Three sets of fingers pointed her way. Maka blinked stupidly as the demon swiveled his head to look at her. He was actually kind of attractive, if you looked past the horns and tail…and wasn't _that_ a disturbing thought.

"Couldn't even get bound to a decent-looking human," he groaned, slumping back on the coffee table.

"MAKA CHOP!"

"OW! The _fuck_ was that?!"

"That, my little demon, was a Maka Chop. The first of many you'll get, I think." Liz met Maka's gaze across the coffee table, a slow grin crawling across her face.

"Oh, this is gonna be _fun_."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 29 July 2014<strong>_


	19. Making Up Is Fun To Do

**A/N: Birthday fic for sandmancircus, who asked for making up after a fight**

* * *

><p>He knows the moment she returns to the apartment, and it's not just because he's been listening for her. Maka has a certain way of entering rooms—even now he can hear the faint squeak of a door swinging open just enough to allow her inside. While Blair prefers using the window and Soul just barrels through when he comes in, Maka is economical in her entrances. But thinking of her entrances reminds him of her exit, and it twists his mouth into a grimace.<p>

They are no strangers to fighting, of course—but it feels wrong to call their daily disagreements "fights." They're more like quarrels; little battles that are won with a kiss and a compromise.

Last night had not been a battle. Last night had been a war, with neither side willing to accede. Nothing had been won, nothing gained—there was only loss.

And now comes the truce.

He's sitting on the couch, pretending to watch TV (even though it's on mute). Nothing is said as she toes off her shoes and crosses the room. Silently, he lifts an arm off the back of the couch; she accepts his invitation and curls up against his side. She is warm and smells like cherries.

"I'm sorry." Her voice is rough and small. He hates it; she is not supposed to sound small.

"I know. I'm sorry too."

"I know."

He sighs and scrubs his face with a hand. "You get where I'm coming from, though?"

She bites her lip and burrows closer into his side. "Kinda."

Soul looks down at her in disbelief. Her face is pressed against his ribs as she avoids his gaze. "Kinda? Maka, you went on a date with another guy."

She pops up suddenly, cheeks red and puffed out, looking all the world like an indignant chipmunk. If the subject matter were any different, he'd have laughed. "I didn't know it was a date!"

"He invited you to lunch at that fancy bistro down the street. How could you not know?"

Her face falls. "Never been asked on a date before," she mumbles.

"Then what're _we_ doing?" he asks, only halfway insulted for some reason.

"It's different with you. Always has been."

He can't fault her there. "Yeah. It has. But…just tell me next time a guy asks you to do something, okay?"

"I will." She leans against him, pressing her nose against his neck. Her closeness only reminds him of the empty bed he'd endured the night before, and it awakens something deep within him.

His arm snakes around her waist and pulls her even closer. She squeaks in surprise and looks up through her eyelashes at him. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" His fingers find the strip of flesh between shirt and shorts; they trace circles into her skin.

Her breath quickens. "Awfully eager, aren't you?"

He shrugs, unashamed. "What can I say?" He bends down until his mouth is just brushing against her ear. "The make-up sex is the best part." She flushes bright red, and he can't help the wolfish smile that crosses his face. "How was Tsubaki's couch?"

"Cold. How was your bed?"

"Unsatisfying." He nips at her earlobe and draws back.

Her pupils are blown wide, her gaze hooded. "I suppose we'll have to fix that."

He hums in agreement before leaning in to kiss her. She meets him halfway, like she always does.

They might not have had the smoothest of relationships, but that wasn't something Soul wanted, anyway. It was the things you worked for that meant the most.

Besides, the make-up sex really was fantastic.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 30 July 2014<strong>_


	20. Groping in a Winter Wonderland

**A/N: Prompt by your-awkward-unicorn: winter wonderland**

* * *

><p>"<em>Sleigh bells ring<br>__Are you listening?  
><em>_In the lane  
><em>_Snow is glistening.  
><em>_A beautiful sight,  
><em>_We're happy tonight  
><em>_Walking in a Winter Wonderland…_"

"I hate this fucking song."

"It's not _that_ bad, Soul."

"I'm seriously gonna murder someone if they don't stop playing this song."

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? This is the fourth time they've played it since we've come in."

Maka rolled her eyes. "Drama queen."

"Seriously, though, how does this not bother you?" Soul slouched moodily, hands shoved into his pockets. He hadn't minded Maka dragging him with her for Christmas shopping—until he learned that this store only knew about the existence of five or so Christmas songs. And put them on an endless loop.

Maka shrugged, eyes scanning a display of scarves. "You just sort of tune it out, you know?"

Soul stared at her. "No. No, I don't."

"Well, you'll just have to suck it up until I'm done."

"Makaaaa," he whined. "We've been here for," —he looked down at his watch— "nearly an hour now. I am _this close_ to gouging my ears out."

She turned around and suddenly Soul was faced with a teasing pair of green eyes. "You poor thing," she said, sounding totally unsympathetic.

"Maka—"

"Tell you what," she interrupted. "You stick it out here, and I'll find a way to make it up to you." Maka wasn't very good with innuendos, but her meaning was clear as her mouth twitched up in a smile.

One of his eyebrows lifted as he grinned at her lecherously. "Really?"

"Really."

"Suddenly this song doesn't seem so bad…"

"That's what I thought."

Five minutes later, his hands found their way to her waist. "Soul—"

"Did I mention how much I hate this song? I think I might need something to help me tune it out." His fingers pressed into her side as he pulled her around to face him.

"You are _such_ a—" He caught her words in his mouth as he pressed her against the shelves. "Soul—mmmph—someone's gonna see…"

He grinned against her neck. "Don't care."

She squirmed against him, drawing a strangled wheeze from his throat. "_Fuck_, Maka…"

"You couldn't wait?!" But she didn't pull away, so he counted it as a victory.

"What can I say?" He nibbled at her collarbone. "I _really_ hate this song."

Maka opened her mouth to reply, but Soul chose that moment to suck on her earlobe and she broke off with a gasp. "Such—such a bad influence," she said once she'd gotten her breath back.

"You love it."

"I do not—"

"You do." Her mouth claimed his and her tongue flicked against his lower lip. "See?" He smirked.

"Oh, shut up." Her hands crept underneath the hem of his shirt.

"Gladly." His hands went south as well, sliding smoothly into her back pockets and pressing her closer. Maka sighed into his mouth and suddenly he couldn't hear anything but the thud of her heart and the whisper of her hair against his cheek.

A crisp, disapproving voice had them flying away from each other. "Excuse me." An older employee looked down her nose at them, prompting Maka to turn beet red. Soul could feel his own ears burning. "This is a family store," she sniffed, "and that type of behavior is completely inappropriate. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Maka squeaked out some kind of stammered apology and dragged Soul out behind her. It was only after they were three blocks away that she stopped and turned on him. "That was entirely your fault!"

"Totally worth it." The honesty in his eyes did nothing to cool her face. "And I can think of better things to be doing than arguing."

Maka looked like she wanted to argue, but Soul's searing kiss erased all opposition from her mind.

"Sides," he murmured. "It got that fucking song outta my head."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 4 August 2014<strong>_


	21. Lost and Found in Translation

**A/N: Prompt by ausipiciousleader: soma tourists.**

**All done through an online translator, so pardon any mistakes. Also, I did not provide translations in the prompt, as I thought everything flowed a little better without them. **

* * *

><p>His parents, despite having more money than anyone could possibly know what to do with, were terribly unoriginal.<p>

Paris, his mother gushed. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the family spent the summer in Paris? Imagine the sights, the sounds, the art, the music—

_The cliche_, he'd added, but not aloud. He'd long ago learned his lesson in that regard. He'd had to settle for rolling his eyes at his older brother, Wes, who had bitten his lip to avoid laughing out loud.

Even if Soul had spoken up, Aurora Evans was not one to be dissuaded when she had her mind set on something (see the younger Evans' first name). So Paris it was.

It'd taken her all of a week to drag Soul out to all the stupid tourist-y places that she believed were the be-all end-all of France. Wes, the bastard, managed to slip away every time with music-related excuses that Soul couldn't exactly tag along for. But somehow, eight days into the summer trip, Soul had managed to wrangle his mother's permission to tour the city on his own.

And he had no fucking clue what to do. Yeah, he thought the big, showy tourist attractions were stupid and overrated, but what it wasn't like the guidebooks told you about the hole-in-the-wall cafe that sold the best hot chocolate, or the back alley that had the best graffiti. If he were back in New York City he'd know all the weird places that made the city his, but he was a stranger here, with no history and no starting point.

At least he knew French. That had come in handy more than once. And it was looking like it'd come in handy again.

Two girls were sitting at an outdoor cafe table, sipping coffees and chattering in rapid French. One was very tall with straight brown hair; the other on the petite side, with ashy blonde hair tied into pigtails. The brown-haired one whispered something to her pigtailed friend and pointed to him.

Soul was suddenly pinned in the gaze of the greenest eyes he'd ever seen, and though it meant he'd been caught staring, he couldn't look away. The brown-haired girl giggled and elbowed her friend, who glared at her and said in rapid-fire French, "Vous voyez? Juste un autre touriste yeux écarquillés. Probablement sur le chemin de la tour."

Soul felt more than a little insulted; he wasn't some stupid tourist. And besides, his mother had already dragged him to see the Eiffel Tower and he'd thought it to be one of the largest wastes of money he'd ever experienced (and knowing his mother, that had been saying something). How dare this little French girl judge him for things outside of his control?

So he spoke up. Normally, he wouldn't have cared what she thought, would have deemed her not worth his time, but he was feeling tetchy that day and her eyes really were some shade of green. So he took a handful of deliberate steps, looked right at her, and said, "Je pense que des endroits comme ça sont surévaluées, pas vous?"

Her friend collapsed into bubbling laughter, clutching her sides while the green-eyed girl flushed a very pretty shade of red. Face glued to her coffee cup, she mumbled out an apology.

Soul was struck by a very sudden feeling; he didn't want to humiliate this girl and then just walk away. It wasn't that he felt guilty for embarrassing her—that had been quite fun—it was that he wanted to know what she thought was worth seeing in her city. He wanted to know her places, her secret haunts, the things that made Paris hers in the way New York was his.

He wanted to look at those green eyes just a little longer.

And so, quite boldly, he leaned against the curled iron railing of the cafe and said, "Montrez-moi, alors. Montrez-moi votre Paris."

She blinked at him. "Excusez-moi?"

"Ma mère m'a traîné ici pour l'été, et je suis incroyablement ennuyé. Alors montrez-moi les endroits secrets que vous aimez, les lieux ne connaît." He didn't know what it was about this girl, what it was that drew him to her, but he knew that he couldn't walk away without her name, at the very least.

She blinked slowly at him; her friend smiled widely before bending forward and jabbering rapid French into her ear. They hissed back and forth too quickly and quietly for him to understand, but from the way they kept glancing at him, he could guess the subject of their conversation well enough.

Finally, she looked up at him, a critical gleam in her eye. "Quel est votre nom, américain?"

"Soul."

She repeated his name, and the way she rolled it around her tongue had him wondering if maybe this was a very bad idea. But another look into her green eyes and the thought was lost. "Et vous?" he asked.

"Maka. Bienvenue à Paris."

_Welcome, indeed._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Posted 5 August 2014<em>**


	22. You Look Like My Next Drinking Buddy

**A/N: Prompt by bakal0us: drunk maka**

* * *

><p>He's been watching her all night, and not just because she's been ordering liquor like there's no tomorrow. There's something intriguing about a woman wearing pigtails in a bar, and though the men around her are eyeing her like the jailbait they think she is, he believes differently—and not just because he'd be royally screwed for serving a minor.<p>

She's been quiet most of the night, only speaking up whenever the glass bottom of her scotch glass reappears. He respects the hell out of her for her drinking choices—there's nothing really wrong with the fruity girl drinks, but he finds it kinda hot that she's a scotch girl. Also, it's another point in the not-jailbait category.

But that won't stop him from cutting her off. She's already had much more than a woman her size should, even if she's been holding it like a champion.

He takes that last thought back as she wobbles on her stool. Not holding her liquor then—concealing it. But even the dullest of barflies can spot a drunk woman from a mile away, and they're starting to descend.

Normally he wouldn't care much. Sure, he'd shoot 'em a glare and ring up a cab for whatever unfortunate girl was sitting wasted at the bar, but he wouldn't spare much thought to what happened to them after they were safely on their way home.

Her, though. He's curious about her. And despite his adamant refusal to play therapist-bartender, his feet find their way towards her.

She's playing with the rim of her scotch glass, running a finger around the rim like she's trying to coax a ringing note from it. If she is, it's inaudible. "Get a refill?" she says, like she hadn't asked him five minutes ago.

He shakes his head. "Can't. You're cut off, remember?"

She opens her mouth like she's about to protest, then squints a little, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. Her mouth snaps shut and she scowls. "Yeah."

"Something tells me you're not drinking for fun."

She tries to glare at him, but her gaze is too fuzzy for it to be effective. "How d'you know?" Her voice is slurred and petulant.

He snorts. "No one drinks scotch for fun."

"They don't, do they." She looks morbidly thoughtful.

He pulls a glass from a rack behind him and begins to clean it, if only to give his hands something to do. "So what's the deal then? Get mistaken for jailbait?"

He can't hide his grin at her squawk of indignation. "No! And 's none of your business, so why should I tell you?!"

He gestures to the wrinkled white shirt and black pants that serve as his uniform. "Bartender. It's kinda in the job description."

"So? Still don't have to talk to you." The fact that she can be this stubborn even when drunk impresses him greatly.

"I could leave you to them if you'd like." He nods to the group of regulars clustered in a booth nearby. A few of them are shooting her leery glances.

She risks a glance over her shoulder and shudders at the sight. "Think I'll take you…" she mumbles.

"Thought you might."

She mutters something that sounds like "stuited grass" and it doesn't take him long to parse her meaning. "Well, that's not very nice."

Her next words are all-too-clear. "Fuck off."

He sets the glass in his hands down with a loud thunk. "If that's how you respond to every offer to help, it's no wonder you're drinking scotch alone in a bar on a Friday night."

She sobers very quickly, and he wonders if maybe he's struck a little too close to home. "Yeah," she says. "Maybe that's why."

He feels disproportionately guilty for his words. "Ah, shit. Didn't mean it."

"S'okay." But she won't meet his eyes.

"I mean it. Not very good with this whole therapist-bartender shit."

"So why talk to me?"

"Dunno. You looked lonely? Wanted to keep those guys off your ass? You're kinda cute even with pigtails? Pick a reason."

"What's wrong with the pigtails?"

She _would_ latch onto that reason. "What self-respecting woman wears pigtails to a bar?"

She stares at him hard. "You're right, you _do_ suck at this bartender thing."

He rolls his eyes and fixes her with a look of his own.

"I like 'em," she says finally, twisting one of the tails in question. "Doesn't matter what _you_ think. Doesn't matter what he thinks either."

The last comes in an undertone he has to lean forward to catch, and now he's getting to the crux of the problem. "Whoever he is, he's an idiot."

"You don' even know him."

"Don't have to, if he's making a woman like you drink scotch on your own."

Her cheeks flush and there may be even a hint of a smile near her lips. "Jus' sayin' that."

Ah, what the hell. She's cute and not jailbait and she hasn't once cringed from his teeth or eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe not. You'd probably have to be sober to figure that one out."

Her eyes widen and drop down to the glass between her hands. She shakes her head ruefully. "Think I'm 'bout two glasses past that point."

He sighs theatrically. "That's too bad. I guess you'll just have to come back when you shake that hangover off and we'll try again. This time without the scotch."

She blushes again, but her eyes are cynical. "Pretty words, sharkboy."

His barks out a laugh. "Show up tomorrow night and I'll back 'em up. That's a promise, Pigtails."

She bristles at the nickname. "If you're gonna invite me back, you should at least know m' name."

He waits for a moment, but she just blinks at him. He sighs, then says with exaggerated slowness, "And your name would be…?"

She starts. "Oh, yeah. Maka. My name's Maka."

"And I'm Soul. So are you gonna come back tomorrow or what?"

"No way your name's Soul."

He pulls at the metal nametag clipped to his shirt. Maka leans forward to squint at it, and he is awash with the scent of scotch paired with something light and floral. Suddenly, tomorrow night seems a little too far away.

"Huh. Your name _is_ Soul."

"Thanks for telling me," he says dryly, "but you still haven't given me an answer."

Maka regards him for a long moment, long enough that he begins to wonder if she's forgotten the question. But finally, she sits back on her barstool and says, "Yeah. Okay. Got nothin' to lose, do I?"

"That's the spirit," Soul mutters as he pulls away from the bar.

"Hey! Where're you goin'?"

He picks up the phone receiver tucked around the corner in the stockroom and wiggles it at her. "Callin' you a cab. I'd like to see you in one piece tomorrow."

"Oh." She fiddles with her glass, tracing the condensed water on the side.

He orders the cab quickly and hangs up, watching her from the shadows of the stockroom. He hasn't told her that tomorrow's his night off, or that he has no intention of playing bartender-therapist and every intention of splitting a bottle of scotch with her (permission pending, of course).

Something tells him she'd make for an entertaining drinking buddy, and if there's a part of him that says she'd make for a hell of a lot more interesting _something else_, well…

They'll just have to see where tomorrow night takes them.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 9 August 2014<strong>_


	23. The Bet

**A/N: Cop AU written for hidding-in-shadows. **

**Inspired by Brooklyn 99**

* * *

><p>"You're gonna loooooose."<p>

Maka looked up at her partner, one eyebrow raised in exasperation. She gave a pointed glance towards the two numbers scribbled in the corner of the large whiteboard behind him—a crisp 24 next to a chicken-scratch 21. "I'm winning right now, you asshole."

Her partner, Soul, rolled his eyes. "Yeah, by like, _two_."

Maka sniffed. "It's three, actually."

"The Gopher debacle doesn't count."

"Yes, it does! It wasn't my fault he was too stupid to make a working bomb."

Soul shrugged and grinned. "Whatever, I don't need it. I'm still gonna beat you."

"There's no way you could bag that many arrests in time, so just give it up. You're gonna lose this bet." Maka was all smooth confidence as she shuffled the papers on her desk.

Soul leaned forward, a daring spark in his eye. "Y'know, it's okay to throw it."

"Throw what?"

"The _bet_, bright one. I mean, we made it way back when you were just a scared little probie—"

"I was never—"

"—but it's okay to admit it now. The reward is just too tempting, isn't it?"

Maka spluttered indignantly as her face flushed. "What—that is—I can't—absolutely not!"

Soul kicked his heels up on his desk and smirked at her. "It's okay if you're in denial. I can wait."

"You're an asshole!"

"Didn't we already establish that?"

Across the room, a skinny pink-haired recruit stared at the two in confusion. "Uh…I don't understand. What are they talking about?"

The station secretary, Liz Thompson, clapped her hand on the recruit's shoulder as she pointed to the whiteboard with one perfectly manicured nail. "That, my dear Crona, is what they're talking about."

"I don't—"

"—understand, I know. I'm getting there." She gestured to the arguing partners. "That's Detective Maka Albarn and her partner, Soul Evans. Don't let the squabbling fool you, they're probably the best team this precinct has. Mostly due to the bet they've got going on."

"They keep mentioning it. Did they bet on arrests or something?"

"Yup," Liz said, popping the 'p'. "Whoever has the most arrests at the end of the year wins."

"Wins what?"

"Well, if Maka gets the most arrests, she gets Soul's bike."

"The orange one outside? I didn't know Maka liked motorcycles."

Liz cackled. "That's the brilliant part: she _hates_ that thing. If she wins, it's guaranteed to end up in a junkyard by the end of the day."

Crona looked back to the two detectives—Soul was smirking at a flustered Maka, who was pretending to read some paperwork. "And what if Soul wins?"

Liz's smile was positively predatory. "If Soul wins, Maka has to go out on a date with him."

Crona's eyes widened. "R-really? And she agreed to that?"

"Mm-hmm," Liz hummed. "That was her first mistake."

"Her second?"

"Thinking everyone would stay out of it." Liz peered over her shoulder and smiled. "Okay, Black*Star! Bring 'em in!"

"YO! SOUL!"

The white-hair cop pushed off his desk and wheeled his chair around to face the front of the precinct. "You're late, 'Star."

"I ain't late!" The voice came from behind a rather disgruntled-looking criminal, who was shuffled aside to reveal a shorter officer with vivid blue hair. He was followed by two other cops, each leading a man in cuffs. "There was one more there than we thought, so I had to call backup."

"You? Called backup?"

"I coulda handled 'em!" Black*Star's face darkened as he muttered, "They wouldn't all fit in the back of my car."

Soul threw his head back in laughter as Maka peered around him. "What's going on?"

"That, my dear Albarn, is me catching up."

Her eyes narrowed. "What? But Black*Star—"

"—is working under me."

"The great Black*Star works under no one!"

Soul didn't even turn as he addressed the shorter cop. "Shut up, dude, I told you where to go. Anyway," he said, refocusing on his partner, "we got a tip about an exchange with Arachnophobia. I handled the case, so it's my arrest."

"Then why didn't you go do it yourself?" Maka asked, scrambling for a loophole.

"Cos I wanted to be here to see your face. You know, the one you're making now, with the red cheeks and squinty eyes—you look adorable when you're angry, by the way."

Maka made a sound akin to a dying cat. "That—that doesn't count! You weren't there!"

Soul held up a finger. "Ah ah ah. If you make that a rule, then you've got to take back Gopher. And Noah. Hell, let's throw in Eruka, too. You weren't there for that one, were you?"

Maka's face was a kaleidoscope of colors as the gears turned in her head. Soul couldn't stop grinning as he watched her. "Fine! Fine," she growled. "But this isn't over."

"If you say so," Soul said in a sing-song. He stood up and rounded the desk towards the whiteboard, where he picked up a marker and, with a flourish, rewrote the 21 to read 24.

"Better get yourself a dress, Albarn," he said as he turned around. "And make it red. I like red."

Her only reply was to throw a police manual at him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 19 August 2014<strong>_


	24. Laundry Day

**A/N: Birthday fic for izzyk279, who asked for soma doing chores. **

* * *

><p>"Maka? Maka!" Soul poked his head outside his room, brow furrowed. "Hellooooo? Maka!"<p>

His only reply was the noisy hum of the heater as it finally kicked in. He sighed. Maka's silence wasn't surprising, really—she liked to listen to her tragedy of a playlist at ear-shattering levels on laundry day.

Soul emerged from his room, laundry hamper in hand. He let it drop from his hand as he caught sight of an enormous pile of freshly dried laundry heaped on the couch. "If you've forgotten to fold again," he growled, shooting a look towards her closed bedroom door, "I swear…"

He reached down to pluck one of her socks out of the pile—and was greatly surprised when it was followed by a pale ankle and a startled squeak.

"What the—Maka?"

"Mmhhmmm?" came her sleepy reply from beneath a bath towel and a pair of jeans.

Soul began pulling articles of clothing away from the exposed calf he'd found, feeling far too much like an archaeologist in search of fossils. Finally, he pulled her black coat off to reveal his partner's face, scrunched up with sleep and irritation. "Maka…what are you doing?"

"Sleeping. Or, trying to." She glared at him, but her pigtails were mussed and she was still only half-awake, so the effect was lost.

"In the laundry?"

"Yeah. It's cold in here. Laundry's warm."

"The heater just kicked in, y'know." He tried not to stare at the length of thigh her sleep shorts were showing.

"Don't care. It's comfy in here. See?" Her hand flashed out and latched onto his wrist, pulling him down on top of her. He let out a rather unmanly yelp as he landed.

"Now you've got to pile the warm clothes around you," she said, sweeping a hand to bury them underneath an avalanche of fluffy heat. "Feels better in here, doesn't it?"

Well, his hand was curled around her waist and the soft skin of her stomach was pressed against his, so yeah, "better" was an understatement. He would gladly lie here forever, if she wanted.

But he was Soul and she was Maka—teasing was inevitable. "You do know we're wrinkling your favorite shirt, right?"

"What? Soul!"

"Hey, you pulled me in here with you."

"Well, get off then!"

He knew she couldn't see him, but he smiled anyway. "Not a chance." And he kissed her.

The laundry was nearly cool by the time they emerged.

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><p><em><strong>Posted 27 August 2014<strong>_


	25. Wax On, Wax Off

**A/N: Almost forgot this one, so pardon me as I rearrange everything to squeeze it in!**

**Prompt by anonymous: "****Soul decided to take a Karate class (for reasons). Maka's the badass karate chick, teaching the class at, like, age 20 or something. Fluff ensues"**

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><p>Soul Evans, while brilliant on a piano, was a notorious slacker. Case in point: his senior year at Shibusen Prep, he elected to substitute his physical education credit for an extracurricular exercise class. Namely, a karate class he knew he could skate through with minimal effort. A brilliant plan really, until the instructor decided to retire from teaching and left the class in the hands of his most capable student.<p>

Imagine Soul's surprise when he walked through the door to find not the kind, elderly sensei he knew owned the dojo, but rather a small girl who couldn't have been older then he was. Figuring her to be the same type of pushover, he slunk to the back of the class as usual.

"Hey guys," she said, smiling brightly at her new class. "I'm Maka, and I'll be taking over your class. I'm actually a student myself—"

Soul couldn't help the snort that escaped his mouth. Her narrowed eyes searched the crowd and found his with uncanny accuracy. "Do you have something to say?" she asked crisply.

Soul gave a lazy half-shrug. "If you're a student, what makes you qualified to teach us?"

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "As though you're here to learn. Alright then." Her hand beckoned him, but he remained where he was.

"What?" he asked blankly.

"You've just volunteered for my first demonstration. Now get up here."

He took his time shuffling to the front of the room, ignoring her glare as he took his place across from her. "I want you to try and attack me, using the form you used last week," Maka instructed, setting her feet in a ready stance.

Soul scrambled to remember the form; finally, he reached out to take her arm…and suddenly was looking at the ceiling.

"_Holy shit_," he wheezed, and the class erupted into laughter.

"As I was saying before you interrupted me, I'm a black belt student here," Maka said cheerfully, dusting off her hands. "So I believe I'm more than qualified to teach you."

Her instruction was unrelenting as she buzzed around the room to correct stances and watch forms. She also seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to Soul; every time he tried to relax, she was there, scolding him and moving his arms with her ironclad grip.

Before he could escape after class, she called him back. Not wanting to incite her wrath a second time, he stayed where he was, cheeks burning as the rest of the class shot him knowing glances as they left.

When the room was empty, she waved him over. "I don't understand, Soul. You're taking this for a school credit, yeah?" He nodded, and she continued. "I get why; easy elective, right? But the thing is Soul, you're good. At least, you've got the potential to be."

He stared at her, thunderstruck. Whatever he'd been expecting, this was not it.

"I mean it," she pressed, pinning him with her eager gaze. "You're strong, you know how to use that power without overcompensating—but only if you _try_. So…why don't you?"

He didn't have an answer for her. Of course he didn't have an answer; no one had ever asked him that question. They just wrote him off as a lost case and moved on, but Maka—ninety minutes she'd known him, and it sounded like she genuinely cared about what he did. The thought twisted his stomach around, and it wasn't exactly an unpleasant feeling.

"Just something to think about, okay?" she said, smiling at him. "I'll see you next week."

He cleared his throat and murmured, "Yeah. Sure."

She beamed at him then, and he couldn't help but think that substituting his physical education credit was simultaneously the best and worst decision he'd ever made.

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><p><em><strong>Posted 16 September 2014<strong>_


	26. The Bubble Incident

**A/N: Birthday fic for wingsof-flame, who asked for "Met at 3 AM in the laundry room and you ruined all your clothes"**

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><p>It was safe to say that Soul wasn't expecting any company in the dorm laundry room at 3 AM on a Friday morning. The self-professed insomniac knew this from experience-not many chose the early hours of the morning to venture down to the harshly-lit fluorescent liar of too-sweet fabric softener and sour-smelling damp clothes. But the machines were empty and no one was bitching about their sopping wet laundry being left to mold in the corner, and since Soul was always awake anyway, he found it easier to wash his clothes in the relative quiet of the early dawn hours.<p>

At least, that was his plan, until he pushed open the door and found himself staring at a frantic ball of frazzled blonde wearing rumpled pyjamas and staring despondently at something that more resembled a rabid dog than a washing machine. The sight of another person occupying what he'd started to consider his own personal den of lint-bunnies and lonely socks had him blinking stupidly for a few second, giving the blonde just enough time to register the muted thud of the door swinging shut behind him. A pair of wide green eyes pinned him into place as he stood there, laundry bag cutting off the circulation in his fingers as the detergent swung loosely in his other hand.

Finally, since she didn't seem to be in a chatty mood, he spoke. "Do you...need some help?" He was reluctant to ask, but she looked a little too close to the end of her rope not to, and it wasn't like he had anything important to do anyway.

"Um." She looked from him to the rabid washing machine and back again. "I don't...well, yes. I do."

"What happened?" he asked, setting down his laundry with a soft _fwump_. The detergent he left on an adjacent machine as he crossed the room, careful with his feet as he approached clumps of stray bubbles.

"I don't know!" The words exploded from her mouth and she reached up to tug at her hair. Whatever reservations she'd had about sharing her dilemma seemed to evaporate as she took in the mess before her. "It's just...I have a presentation tomorrow," -she checked her watch and groaned- "_today_, in my literature class, and I spilled juice on the only set of nice clothes that I have. I thought I could wash them now but then this happened," -she pointed an accusing finger at the washing machine, as though it was personally at fault- "and now I don't know what to do. This project is thirty percent of my grade and I have to dress up for it, but this is all I have and it's covered in bubbles and _how does this even happen?!_"

Soul held up a hand as she finished, all heaving breaths and pinked cheeks. "Okay," he said slowly. "First off, you might wanna calm down a little."

"I'm completely-"

"Sure. Second, it's no big deal. Just fish out your laundry and start a new load. The janitors will clean this up tomorrow."

She blinked at him. "Oh. But I thought...oh."

His lips curled into a small smile. "See? Not the end of the world. Don't need to shriek and flap your hands about it."

She puffed her cheeks out in indignation and spluttered as he went to retrieve his own laundry. When he turned back, she was staring apprehensively into the bubbly depths of the washing machine. Soul purposely dropped his laundry bag on the floor; she started at the sound and glared up at him. "Got another problem?" he asked, flipping open the top of a nearby machine.

The blonde mumbled something under her breath.

"Gonna have to say that again."

"I said, the washer's too deep. I can't reach my clothes."

Soul blinked at her again, then burst out laughing. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not. Now you will you help me or not?!"

Still chuckling, Soul shook his head. "Fine." He didn't know what it was about the little blonde, but she was intriguing, and something told him that staying here with her would be infinitely more interesting than staring up at the spiderweb cracks in his ceiling for the five hundredth time since the semester had started. If that meant fishing her soaked laundry out of a washing machine spilling its sudsy guts out onto the floor, then so be it.

After rolling up the sleeve of his ratty pyjama shirt, he plunged his hand into the washer, making a face as he navigated through bubbles and lukewarm water. Something mesh snagged on his hand, and he yanked it up to reveal a lime green bra inside a delicates bag. He dangled the bag off one finger and lifted an eyebrow as she squeaked in embarrassment and snatched it away.

"Nice underwear," he quipped, turning back to reach inside the washing machine once more. Before he could retrieve anything else, something wet slapped him across the back and he yelped. The blonde stood behind him, bag in hand, looking equal parts embarrassed and outraged. "Did...did you just slap me with your bra?"

"Stop being such a jerk," she mumbled, but her face and the tips of her ears were flushed red.

"What a way to treat the guy helping you out," he replied, fishing around in the machine as he looked at her. "Come down to do my laundry in peace and this is what I get…"

Something occurred to her then and she dropped the delicates bag on top of a machine on the other side. "Why _are_ you down here, by the way?"

Soul handed her a sopping pair of slacks and looked pointedly around the deserted room. "Gee, I wonder why."

"Anyone ever tell you you're sort of an asshole?"

"Sort of? You're too kind." A dark green ball of cloth he assumed was a blouse joined the pants and the delicates bag.

"I take that as a yes."

"Is there anything else in here?" he asked, shoving his arm deeper into the suds.

"Uh, a sweater, I think."

Soul grunted at the awkward angle and swiped his arm around some more. Finally, slick fabric found his fingers and he pulled a thin black sweater from the soapy insides.

"Thank you, asshole," the blonde said, taking it from him.

Soul raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, you haven't told me your name yet, so I had to make do."

"Soul. I'm Soul." And he was quickly being drawn towards this tiny, pyjama-clad girl, with her bra-slapping and inability to work a washing machine.

"I'm Maka," she said. "Thanks for helping me."

He shrugged and pulled his laundry bag closer. "Got nothing better to do."

She made a noise that sounded something like a "huh" before turning back to her squishy pile of clothes. And even though he was supposed to be paying attention to his own, Soul's eyes kept flicking over to Maka. When she pulled out her laundry detergent, he asked, "What are you doing?"

She stilled and shot him a confused look. "I'm starting a new load?"

"Not with that detergent you're not. Not unless you want a repeat of the Bubble Incident." He jerked his head towards the foaming washer and sidestepped around it to reach her side. "This is your problem."

"My...laundry detergent?"

"These machines are high efficiency, see?" He pointed to a flyer taped a few feet above their heads. "Means you gotta use high efficiency detergent in 'em, or they'll spew. Your's isn't high efficiency."

Maka looked at the flyer for a few moments, then back at him. "You, uh, wouldn't happen to have any laundry detergent, would you?"

"Fresh out," he deadpanned.

"You're not half as funny as you think you are. Gimme the damn detergent."

"Pushy, aren't we?"

Maka rolled her eyes and stalked past him to snatch up the bottle next to his laundry bag. Soul watched in amusement as she busied herself with pouring a capful into the dispenser. "That's stealing, you know."

"You enjoy being difficult, don't you?"

"Maybe I love it."

"Asshole."

"We established that, yes."

Maka shut the detergent dispenser with her hip as she screwed the cap back on and handing it back to Soul. "There's your precious detergent back."

He swished the bottle before setting it down. "Feels a lot lighter to me."

Maka rolled her eyes and pulled a handful of quarters from her pocket. The coins jingled as she slid them into place and loaded them in, and the washer leaped to life as she pressed the start button. Over the rattling of the machine, she said, "You know, you never answered my question."

Soul, who had turned back to his laundry bag, gave her a sideways look as he started loading. "What question?"

She hopped onto the adjacent washing machine (it took a few tries) and tilted her head as she regarded him. "Why you're doing laundry at 3 in the morning on a Friday?"

"Why are you?"

"I don't count; I'm doing special laundry. You are not."

"There's such a thing as special laundry?"

"Of course there is. But from what I can see," -she craned her neck to catch sight of a pair of boxers in his hand, and immediately blushed at the knowing smirk he threw her- "you are not doing special laundry."

"Maybe all my laundry's special." He tossed his last sock into the machine, loaded his detergent and quarters, then pressed the start button before leaning back and crossing his arms against his chest.

"Someone's a little full of himself. And is also avoiding the question."

"I'm not."

"Then why haven't you answered it?"

"Someone's a little nosy."

Maka shrugged. "We're alone in a laundry room at 3 in the morning. This kind of stranger-bonding is natural; expected, even. It's like when you're at a skeevy bar in the middle of the afternoon or sitting next to a stranger on an eight-hour flight. Profound conversation is inevitable."

"Oh, so you're one of _those_ people."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're that person who yammers on even when the person next to you has no desire for conversation."

"I do not _yammer!_"

"Nope, you just slap strangers with your bra."

Maka flushed a bright red. "You know, it's a simple question."

"I know."

"So why won't you answer?"

"Maybe I just like antagonizing you."

"Why?"

Because the second question was infinitely harder to answer than the first, he said, "I can't sleep."

"You like antagonizing me...because you can't sleep?"

"No. I'm doing laundry at 3 AM on a Friday because I can't sleep."

"Tonight? Or ever?"

"Yes? I'm just not a sleep person."

"That's ridiculous. Everyone needs sleep; otherwise, you'll die."

Soul rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, thanks, that solves my problem."

She flashed a sheepish smile. "Sorry." The washer beside her chirped loudly and she hopped off her perch to switch out the loads. Her voice was muffled behind her pile of damp clothes as she crossed the room. "How often do you come down here?"

"Dunno. Maybe a couple times a week. Most of the time I'm in the lounge 'cause I don't want to bother my roommate."

Maka was quiet as she threw in a dryer sheet and closed the door. Four more quarters and her clothes were tumbling lazily around as the heater worked its magic. After retaking her place on the washer, she said quietly, "That sounds lonely."

Soul shrugged. "Not really."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"Yeah, you did."

"Yeah, I did. But I'm done now."

"Sure you are."

"I am! I promise I'll only ask innocuous questions from now on, like what your major is."

Soul let out a groan that was only halfway teasing. Memories of tense phone calls with his parents played through his mind like a bad highlight reel.

"Oh, come on! That can't be a hard question."

"First the insomnia, then the major...you're a cruel woman."

Maka crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "You're impossible."

"I try." His washer beeped then, and the room was quiet as he transferred his clothes. Maka was staring at him like some kind of puzzle when he turned around. "You keep that expression up, it'll freeze that way."

Maka rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. "Thank you. I mean it."

"No problem. I always help out girls who drown their laundry in bubbles."

She fiddled with her hands and looked down to her lap. "Pretty embarrassing, huh."

"Hey, at least you didn't catch it on fire. I draw the line at open flame."

"Sensible of you."

"I thought so."

Maka narrowed her eyes at him and leaned forward, palms braced on the edge of the machine. "I can't believe I've never seen you before."

"What do you mean?"

"We live in the same dorm, right? How have we not crossed paths yet?"

A lazy, knowing smirk crossed Soul's face. "Is this your subtle way of telling me that you want to cross paths with me?"

Her mouth pressed into a straight line and she gaze him a look. It might have worked if he hadn't caught the faint pinkness of her ears. "I thought we talked about this."

"Pretty sure we didn't. I would definitely remember you asking to see me again."

"No, I meant the whole full of yourself thing. Which you are."

"Now who's the one avoiding the question?" Oh, Soul was having too much fun turning the tables.

"There's no question to avoid."

"Yes there is. Are you telling me you want to see me again?"

An unreadable look crossed Maka's face, and something in her demeanor changed. "What if I am?"

Soul nearly toppled to the ground in surprise. "...I would...uh...that would be cool." He cleared his throat and tried to ignore his burning face.

Maka looked much too smug for her own good. "I thought you would handle that a lot better than you did."

"Shut up, I'm tired."

"No, you're not. Insomniac, remember? Try a different excuse."

Soul decided to go with a different tactic. "You've got soap bubbles in your hair."

Her hand shot to her head and she glared as he laughed, but it only lasted for a few seconds before she was smiling too. And when she scooped a handful of bubbles out of the rabid washing machine to flick at him, his heart squeezed painfully and he found himself very, very grateful that he hadn't spent the morning staring at a tumbling load of laundry.

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><p><em><strong>Posted 30 September 2014<strong>_


	27. Dickwheeze

**A/N: Birthday fic for l0chn3ss (Lochness Nova on here). This was the love child of one of our skype conversations, spawning from the prompt: I saw you throw that candy wrapper on the ground when there's a trash can right there, dickwheeze.**

**Crude language warning. Cos, I mean, dickwheeze**

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><p>Maka Albarn was many things: hardworking, determined, intelligent, stubborn. Even-tempered was not one of them. So when she saw someone throw a candy wrapper on the ground in her favorite park, there was no chance in hell she was keeping quiet about it.<p>

"Hey! You in the black shirt!"

The boy paused and pivoted around on his heels, giving her a strange look as he pointed to himself. She might have mistaken him for an old man had his face not been so young and unlined. Despite the white hair he sported, she guessed his age to be close to hers. He was striking in a way, with piercing scarlet eyes, that silky white hair, and a lean frame that hinted at power and dexterity. He was attractive, she realized with a start. _Very_ attractive.

Well, attractive or not, though, no one was exempt from the environmental science major's wrath.

"Yes, you." She stomped over and planted herself in front of him, hands planted on her hips as she looked up and tried to appear bigger than she was. He seemed to notice this and smirked as he looked her up and down. She bristled under her gaze as her irritation grew, and it was perhaps without thinking that she said, "I saw you throw that candy wrapper on the ground when there's a trash can right there, dickwheeze."

His smirk faltered for a moment as his eyebrows shot up in bemusement. "What - what does that even mean?"

Maka scoffed. "What do you mean, what does that mean? You littered, bright one, do you want me to-"

He waved a hand dismissively, cutting her off. "Not that. I meant dickwheeze. What does that mean?"

Maka stared at him. "I - I don't-"

"Because I can assure you my dick does not do that."

Maka spluttered. "I - that wasn't - that's not the _point_…"

"I mean, I don't think it does. Is it actually wheezing?" He looked down towards his crotch curiously while Maka's face went bright red. "It's never done that before. Maybe I should see a doctor."

He looked back up at her then, smirk wider than ever, and Maka realized that he was teasing her, perhaps in return for calling him out. She harrumphed loudly and crossed her arms, but before she could yell at him, he opened his mouth and kept right on talking. "Now I don't think it's wheezing, but maybe you should check just to be sure."

Maka choked on her own spit. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am," he said earnestly. "This is a very serious problem here. There could be deadly consequences; you could save my life by helping me out. So what kind of wheezing would you describe it as?"

"What on earth are you on-"

"Y'know, I always thought my dick was pretty healthy," he continued, looking totally unabashed. Maka didn't know whether to kick him, strangle him, or laugh, so she simply stood there, looking at him incredulously. "Young, springy, in the prime of life. You must have been mistaken about the wheezing."

"Are you finished? Because -"

"Now that I think about it-"

"Of course you're not." But something in Maka kept her rooted to the spot, kept her engaged in the conversation. She tried to convince herself it wasn't his unusual eyes.

"-why _dick_wheeze? Did my dick attract your attention?"

"Oh no, okay, I am _not_ doing this anymore-"

"I mean, it is an impressive dick, if I do say so myself."

Maka couldn't help snorting. "Excuse you, someone's feeling a bit full of himself."

"I wasn't the one staring at it, was I? So clearly you know it's not wheezing."

As much as Maka wanted to storm off in a huff, there was a teasing glint in the boy's eyes and a crooked playfulness to his smile that caught her off guard. He would let her walk away, she realized. He was only poking fun at her, but there was no maliciousness in the way he stood in front of her, giving her just enough space to disengage. But… she didn't want to. Perhaps it was the stubbornness in her, or the curiosity, but she knew he wasn't done yet and despite all the ridiculousness, she wanted to stick around.

"Or," he said slyly, flashing her a grin full of sharp teeth and promises of something not entirely innocent, "it means you'll be the one wheezing. You know. In my bed. That's only a block away."

Maka gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Was he - had he…? He winked at her exaggeratedly, and suddenly she burst into laughter, doubling over as she held her stomach. She'd never been hit on quite like this, in the middle of the park after she'd yelled at someone. It was cheesy, yes, and she didn't even know this boy, but she found herself wanting to. She couldn't leave it like this though, oh no. She had to put him in his place.

She straightened up and wiped her eyes. "Oh, sure," she said breezily. "But first I have to take out the trash."

After rolling up her sleeves, she closed the space between them, prompting him to ask "Whaaaaat are you doing?" She didn't answer, only ducked down and scooped him up fireman style, drawing a high-pitched yelp from his throat. He was heavy, yes, but Maka was strong, so it was with ease that she carried him over to the nearest trash can and set him upright inside.

The boy blinked at her stupidly before slowly looking down into the trashcan he was standing in. He looked back up and said slowly, "I think my dick is actually wheezing now. You have to take responsibility. You know, check it out, make sure everything works properly."

Maka raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Oh, do I now?" She couldn't keep the small grin off her face. All banter aside, the thought was tempting. Not often did she find a boy who intrigued her like this one did.

He nodded seriously. "Also my clothes reek. You should help me out of here. And out of them."

"And never see you again? I don't do one night stands."

"Nah, this is scandalous as hell," he said earnestly. "We'll have to get married to save our reputation."

"Excuse me?"

"Look." He gestured around them, pointing out the small crowd who had gathered to watch a girl place a boy nearly twice her size in a trash can. "We've drawn a crowd. Can't go back now."

"Then by all means." Maka stepped aside and opened her arm out. He clambered out with some difficulty, swearing creatively as he slipped on something inside. After he was free he stuck his arm out, and Maka, after some hesitation, took it.

"Soul, by the way."

"What?"

"My name. Figured you oughta know that part."

"Oh, I probably know too much already." After a minute of walking she said, "You know, this was all because you kept talking about your dick."

"And we're _still_ talking about it." Soul's grin was wide and toothy. "Probably is a good sign for me."

Maka shoved him. "Don't push it."

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><p><strong><em>Posted 30 November 2014<em>**


	28. Crows and Telephone Lines

**A/N: Anon requested florist and tattoo parlor AU. **

**Aaaand with that I am currently caught up. Sorry to bombard you with notifications!**

_**EDIT: Sorry for the extra notification! Needed to squeeze in an earlier prompt I almost forgot :)**_

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><p>"I fucked up, dude."<p>

The tinkling chime of the bell over the door is drowned out as the frame crashes against the poor little doorstop, which just manages to hold together despite the past abuse leveled upon it by too many overeager customers. Soul looks up from the lazy, half-assed compositions he'd been doodling on a legal pad to see his best friend, Blake Barrett - self-proclaimed Black Star - standing in the doorway, eyes wide with uncharacteristic panic. "I fucked up," he repeats, bolting forward to the counter. "You gotta help me out."

"Okay, slow down," Soul says, shoving the pad to the side. "What happened?"

"Tsubaki's pissed at me. Like, take a baseball bat to my skull pissed. You gotta help me calm her down."

Soul's eyebrows ascend slowly in disbelief. "What did you do?" His friend is not well-known for his tact, something his girlfriend has long since accepted and can somehow overlook. That Black Star has managed to do enough damage to incur her wrath is impressive indeed.

Black Star winces. "I don't - that's not important. I just need you to help me fix it!"

Soul is already shaking his head. "No way, man, I'm not playing the middle man-"

Black Star rolls his eyes. "I don't want you to go talk to her, idiot, I meant I need flowers 'n' shit to apologize. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when stuff like this happens? So gimme some flowers!"

Soul kicks himself for not thinking of it. After all, he is standing behind the counter in a flower shop, surrounded by pots of orchids and hydrangeas, with dirt permanently embedded underneath his nails. Flowers are his business, but Black Star has never once visited as a customer, so maybe it's understandable that he hadn't made the connection immediately.

Automatically his hands reach for the legal pad reserved for ordering, the one decorated with sloppily scrawled treble clefs and jagged music notes trailing one after the other like little ants in a row. He even uncaps his pen before he stills and looks back up, a skeptical slant to his mouth. "You know flowers aren't gonna be enough to make up for whatever shit you did."

Black Star blinks at him. "They're not? But I thought girls ate that shit up!"

"Not all girls. Definitely not Tsubaki. I hope you have a step two, dude, because this better be step one. And it's probably gonna have to be a long list."

Black Star groans and falls forward, his head hitting the counter with a loud thud. "I hate lists. Make me feel all responsible and shit."

"You want the flowers or not?"

"Yeah," he grumbles. "Gotta do somethin' I guess."

"Okay, then what kind?"

"What kind of what?"

Soul rolls his eyes. How his moron of a best friend had ever managed to land the willowy beauty that is Tsubaki, he will never know. "What kind of _flowers_, idiot. You gotta pick 'em out."

Black Star peels his forehead off the counter, a blank look in his eyes. "I dunno. You pick."

"Better stick with purple hyacinths," he says automatically, his mind quickly running through the options as he has so many times before. "Good for an apology."

Black Star gives him a flat look. "You stay here any longer, you're gonna turn into one of the pansies you sell."

"I'm not the one in the doghouse, begging for flowers, am I?" Soul shoots back.

"'Least I have a girlfriend."

"Not for much longer, you don't."

"Just gimme the damn flowers."

Soul moves away from behind the counter and ducks into the back room, eyes scanning the packed shelves in a search for the telltale purple blossoms. Black Star trails after him, hands shoved in his pockets as he sulks. "You want 'em now or for delivery?" Soul asks, then: "Stupid, you can just give 'em to her now, dunno why I asked-"

"Actually," Black Star interrupts. "You really should be the one to give them to her."

Soul stops and turns around, blinking in surprise. "Why me?"

"Because she probably won't try to rip your dick off when you do."

Soul's eyebrows shoot sky-high. "_Probably?_ Dude, what the fuck did you even _do?_"

Black Star ignores him. "Look, she's at work now, so you can just go next door real quick and get 'em to her. I got shit to do."

"Step two?"

His friend mumbles something dark that sounds suspiciously like a 'fuck off.' Soul snorts and turns back to flower hunting as Black Star wanders up to the front of the shop. After pushing aside a bushy arrangement of tulips he finds them, fingers picking through the stems with ease. When he's gathered enough he retraces his steps back to the counter, snagging tissue paper and clear plastic wrap to bundle them together into a bouquet. His motions are quick, and soon he has the finished product lying on the counter as he punches the order into the cash register. "That'll be twenty-seven even."

Black Star balks as he reached for his wallet. "For fuckin' flowers? You're fucking kidding me."

Soul shrugs. "Shit's expensive. Think about that the next time you're about to fuck something up."

He bristles, forking over the cash. "Just get 'em to her quick, alright?"

Soul nods. "Lunch break's coming up, I'll stop by then."

Black Star grunts in acknowledgement and tucks his wallet back into his pocket. "See you Saturday for basketball, yeah?"

"'Course. See you later." They bump fists before Black Star flings the door wide again, rattling the loose doorstop and sending the bells attached to the top into a chiming frenzy. Soul, long since used to his friend's theatrical entrances and exits, ignores him and sets the flowers to the side where they will wait until lunch.

It's a slow day in the shop, and by the time lunch does roll around, Soul is itching to escape the humid air and dull atmosphere. He fumbles around for the plastic little clock that sticks to the window and carefully sets the time he'll return - he'd scorned the practice his first week of work, but after Marie, his manager, gave him a stern talking-to about his "responsibility to customers"and the "importance of maintaining her business' integrity," Soul always made sure to put some kind of notice up whenever he left for breaks, if only to avoid another of Marie's lectures.

Flowers in hand, he walks the half a block it takes to reach Tsubaki's place of employment: a stylish little tattoo parlor tucked in right next to the flower shop. A small bell rings when he opens the door, and Soul wonders not for the first time why every single store in the damn town seemed to have an obsession with bells.

"Oh, Soul, hello!" Tsubaki is manning the counter, a glossy magazine spread out before her to ease her boredom. Her waiting room is just as vacant as his shop, but that's to be expected on a Wednesday afternoon. Business might pick up after lunch, but for now they both wait and entertain themselves.

"Hey, Tsubaki," Soul greets, walking up to the counter. He lays the flowers down in front of her, an action which does not go unnoticed.

For a second, her brows draw together in confusion. Then the realization hits and her eyes narrow. "He sent you, didn't he?"

Soul shrugs. "Hey, it's just an order. Told me to bring these to you during lunch."

"He couldn't bring them himself?" Tsubaki asks mildly, but when her voice is like that, her mood is anything but.

"He's out trying to fix whatever he did," Soul says, because Black Star is his friend and he can't not defend him just a little.

Tsubaki sighs and reaches out to touch one of the flowers. "I'm sure he's trying at least."

There is still some amount of suppressed irritation flashing in her eyes, though, so Soul drops the topic for something a little safer. "Looks like a slow day for you, too."

Tsubaki shrugs. "We did get a couple of people in here this morning - a piercing and a consultation. Our new artist is working on that piece now, actually…"

A new voice joins their conversation with uncanny timing. "This is ridiculous, Tsubaki, I don't know what that idiot was _thinking_-" A petite blonde storms out of the backroom, a sketchpad clenched in one hand, a thoroughly chewed pen in the other. She freezes unceremoniously in the middle of the room and Soul is about to introduce himself when he realizes that it's not him she's staring at, but the bouquet of flowers resting on the counter. "I need those."

"I - you what?"

"Those flowers, what are they?"

"...Hyacinths?" Soul blinks stupidly at the newcomer, then turns to Tsubaki, his confusion clear.

Tsubaki doesn't miss a beat. "Soul, this is our new artist, Maka. Maka, this is Soul. He works in the flower shop next door."

Maka, however, isn't paying any attention, as she has already dived into her sketchbook, gaze intently focused as she nibbles on her pen.

"She'll come up for air soon," Tsubaki says matter-of-factly. "I've learned that you can't really hold a conversation with her when she's working on a piece."

"Alright?" Soul takes the opportunity to examine her without fear of her noticing, though he tries to keep it quick (Tsubaki _is_ right there, after all).

This artist, Maka, is a good head shorter than he, though something in the way she stands tells him that she more than makes up for it in personality. Her hair is tied back into pigtails, an odd choice considering her profession, but she manages to pull it off. He thinks he can catch the hint of a tattoo under her sleeve, but she looks back up and pins him with a pair of piercing green eyes before he can really be sure. "Still not right," she sighs, and tosses her pad onto the counter.

The page is covered in sketches, most of which are encircled by a ring of flowers. Soul doesn't recognize most of them, as they all seem to be strange amalgams of blossoms that sit patiently in the back room of his shop.

"I can't find the right flower," Maka sighs, tugging on one of her pigtails. "That moron didn't bother with the specifics, and nothing I come up with fits!" She slams the pen down on the pad and scowls. Soul is still at a loss, but before he can try to come up with anything at all to say, Maka whips her head around to stare at him. "You."

"Me," Soul says uncertainly, as though that hasn't been the tone of the entire conversation.

"You work in a flower shop, don't you?"

They had established that literally fifteen seconds ago, but Soul nods anyway. "I do."

"You need to let me see your flowers."

Soul's mind blanks and he desperately orders himself not to pervert that into some weird innuendo. Because Maka is not at all attractive in any way, and he is not at all intrigued by her. "Okay, I guess. I'm assuming you want to go now?"

She nods. "Stupid client wanted this done before closing, never mind that designs like this are a bitch to make. At least I can charge him for a rush order. Tsubaki, you're okay to man the counter?"

Tsubaki scans the empty room and smiles at her coworker. "I think I'll be alright."

Soul points to the bouquet. "You want me to take those?"

Tsubaki hesitates, her fingers barely brushing the stems of the flowers in front of her. "What do they mean?" She knows that Soul doesn't recommend flowers that don't have a meaning, but he thinks she already knows the answer.

"Apology."

She sighs. "I thought so." Her fingers tighten a little bit more, and Soul knows she won't part with them.

"See you later," he calls, the bell above the door chiming once more as Maka leaves the shop, pad and pen back in her hands.

Tsubaki hums in acknowledgement as the door swings shut behind them. Maka is already five steps ahead of him, itchy and eager to dive back into her art. Soul shakes his head and follows after her, wondering what exactly he's gotten himself into.

She waits impatiently as he unlocks the door and takes down the CLOSED sign, silently lamenting that he hadn't been able to stop by his favorite deli across the street for lunch. He knows he won't go hungry, since Marie has taken to squirreling snacks in various cupboards in the microscopic break room, but he he'd really been looking forward to a turkey on rye. Now he'll have to content himself with crumbling granola bars and chewy fruit jerky.

The second he enters the shop Maka slips through behind him, already lost in her examination of the plants that litter the shop's many rickety tables. The lights flicker on with a mechanical hum, casting the room in a momentary bizarre glow as the filaments heat up, but she doesn't take notice. Her pen is too busy scratching the surface of the paper.

Soul leaves her to her devices and takes up his place behind the counter, settling back on the stool and hunching forward over his own doodles. It doesn't take too long for his gaze to drift upwards, back to the girl he has let wander around his shop. She mouths words to herself as she works, eyes narrowed as she peers down to examine every minute detail. The elegant curves of the petals, the vibrant gradient of the colors, the knobby turns of the stems - nothing is hidden from her gaze. He wonders if she can see people just as clearly.

He doesn't know how long she works, but it's long enough that he goes back to his doodles in an attempt to pass the time. At some point she discovers the back stockroom and ducks inside, and though strictly speaking it's not allowed, he already knows that trying to stop her will be quite a feat indeed. So he lets her have her freedom, one ear open for the sound of pots falling and smashing to the floor. But no such thing happens, and he relaxes back into his disinterested slouch as the clock above him continues to tick away.

"They look like birds."

Soul starts a little at the sudden interruption, looking up to see Maka standing in front of him, her drawing pad and pen laying on the counter. She isn't looking at him, but at the doodles he's been working on. He glances down at his handiwork, then back up with a questioning look on his face.

"I know it's music, but they almost look like crows sitting on telephone wires, don't they?" She points to the piece in question, a snippet of composition he'd tucked away in the top lefthand corner of the pad. He squints and turns his head a little, but his musically-wired brain can't seem to picture it.

He shrugs. "Whatever you say. Did you find what you needed?"

She beams at him and it feels like someone's punched him in the chest. "Yes! I don't know what they're called, but I found the exact thing in the back corner. Thanks for letting me traipse around your shop, by the way. I didn't mean to intrude." She smiles at him sheepishly, revealing a pair of dimples that don't help him regain his breath in any way.

The sarcasm is natural as he scrambles to collect himself. "Yeah, you were really disrupting the peonies over there." She gives him an unimpressed look, and he snorts and waves his hand. "Really, it's no problem. Most interesting thing to happen all day, actually. It isn't too busy here in during the week, believe it or not."

"I'd imagine." She gets a curious look on her face then, and Soul knows what's coming before it happens. "What I can't imagine, however, is why someone like you would be a florist of all things."

"Hey, I just work here," he grumbles. "Marie's the florist."

"Same question still applies: why here?"

He knows he won't tell her the real answer, the one that no one else knows. He pictures his grandmother in her garden, lecturing him about how to properly care for irises, and his heart throbs painfully. He clears away the lump in his throat and says gruffly, "Pays better here. Less crowded a lot of the time."

Maka purses her lips a little and he knows she doesn't believe him. He feels no guilt, though - he doesn't owe her his life story. "Makes sense," she finally answers, and he's relieved she hasn't decided to pursue it. After a quiet moment she asks, "You _really_ don't think they look like crows?"

She's looking at his legal pad again. He shakes his head, immensely enjoying the frustrated expression on her face. She grumbles a little as she gathers her supplies, and as she does so, he realizes suddenly that this is it, her time in the shop is coming to a close. It makes him feel sicker than he's comfortable with.

Before she reaches the door she stops, turning on her heel to look at him. "Do you mind if I stop by again? In case I need to look at more flowers, I mean."

He finds himself shaking his head before his brain even sends the command. "Come by whenever you like."

He doesn't think she will, but she takes him up on the offer. Every few days she drops by, sketchpad in hand to record her finds. Every few days he watches her, contemplating the girl who works next door, who sees crows and telephone lines in quarter notes and staffs.

She is a force of nature, and he finds himself edging ever closer, hoping to be swept into the storm.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 5 January 2015<strong>_


	29. Bubblegum Bitch

**Prompt by l0chn3ss: high school au; Soul has gum and Maka can't get him to share with her**

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><p>"I know you have it."<p>

"What? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar! I just saw you hide it!"

"Hide what?" Soul blinks innocently and then, just to really rub it in, smacks his gum obnoxiously, taking far too much amusement in the way she swells up like an angry pufferfish.

"Soul! Let me have a piece of your gum, please!"

"Hmmm." He hems and haws for a good minute or so before answering, "Nope. Fresh out."

She growls at him and nearly launches herself from her desk, hands making grabby motions towards the pocket of his jacket. She garners a few strange looks but it's study hall, so no one really gives a shit about what anyone else is doing. Besides, it's Maka and it's Soul, so no one should be surprised anyway. "Just _one_, and I'll pay you back with a piece of mine later-"

"If you have gum why d'you want mine?" He dodges her swipes with a grin and continues to lord his chewed gum over her as much as he can.

"You idiot, I don't have it on me _now_, so would you just-"

Her hand accidentally brushes near the crotch of his jeans and Soul squawks loudly before he can help himself. To cover up his embarrassment he clears his throat and leers at her saying, "Jeez, Maka, if that's what you wanted you should have just _asked_."

She squeaks and snarls at him, and he counts the different shades of red on her face. But there is also a twinkling clever gleam in her eye, one he recognizes and knows not to trust. Before he can ask her what she's planning, or brace himself for whatever's coming, she leans forward and presses her lips firmly against his cheek.

Soul's brain promptly short-circuits.

_Her lips are on his cheek, her lips are on his _skin_, oh god they're so soft and warm and what might they feel like on his _lips_, what might they feel like on _other_ places-_

He feels her fingers near his waist and it yanks him out of his daze, though there is still a part of him that is dreamily wondering if the rest of her skin might be as soft as her lips and oh please can he find out with his own mouth?

The rest of him follows his gaze to her hand, which is snaking out of his pocket, wrinkled package of gum clutched in her grasp. Soul gawks at her, spluttering and stammering and helpless as he watches her unwrap a piece, her tongue darting out to lick the powdery sugar off the surface as she pops it in her mouth. She licks her lips again and he belatedly orders anything below his waist to _stand the fuck down_ before the final bell rings and he makes even more of an ass of himself.

"Thank you for the gum," she says smugly, and the fire in her eyes ignites a fire in his own, and the fog in his brain starts to lift. Because it's Maka and it's Soul, and he can never let her have the last word.

"So is it really the gum you wanted or…"

She pelts the foil package at his face, but he never quite forgets the pretty blush on her cheeks.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 7 February 2014<strong>_


	30. Tie-Dye Mishap

**A/N: Prompt by l0chn3ss: soma making tie-dye shirts**

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><p>She found it while they were spring cleaning, tucked away in a box crammed full of the stupid gag gifts Black*Star had given them over the years. If Soul had found it he would have tossed it without a second thought, but Tsubaki had given her the kit and as she put it, "it would be a waste not to use it. Besides, it'll be fun!"<p>

Maka also thought studying was fun, so her judgement was probably skewed a little. But she was stubborn and he didn't have any energy to argue with her, so their cleaning day was put on hold in favor of tie-dying shirts.

She quickly became absorbed in creating an intricate pattern on the white t-shirt she'd scrounged out of her closet, which is why she didn't notice when Soul's eyes began to dart from his dye-spattered hands to her back. The idea forming in his mind was a supremely bad one and normally Soul could be counted on to be level-headed, but one should never underestimate the combined bad influences of Maka and Black*Star.

He tip-toed quietly towards her as he stretched out his hands, both aimed for the center of her back. She was wearing one of her rattier shirts so he knew she wouldn't care too much if he stained it, and to him, that was all the thinking that really needed to go into his supremely bad idea.

What he wasn't anticipating was that she'd straighten up and turn around as he reached her. What he wasn't anticipating was that his hands would land right smack on her chest.

It was then that Soul realized two things:

Maka's chest looked a lot smaller than it felt.

He was never going to have kids. Ever. Not after Maka castrated him.

"_SOUL._"

It took him three days to fully recover from the Maka Chop, but he couldn't quite bring himself to regret his decision.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Posted 28 February 2015<strong>_


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